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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Will  C.  Wood 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 


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THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &   CO.,  Limited 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Scenes  from  Good  Novels  depicting 
Joy  in  Work 


BY 

FRANCES  DOANE   TWOMBLY 

AN    IDLE    WOMAN 
AND 

JOHN   COTTON  DANA 

A    BUSY   MAN 


ILLUSTKATED   BY   HELEN  CLARK  PERRY 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1924 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1916, 
By   THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.      Published  November,  1916. 

P  eprinted  November.  1922. 

Reprinted  July.  19'^ 


L..     H.     JENKINS,    INC. 
RICHMOND,     VIRGINIA 

LOAN  STACK 
GIFT 


PA/GOT! 

L'isTfc 


PREFACE 

One  of  us  is  a  woman  perforce  set  aside,  and 
looking  with  eyes  of  sympathetic  envy  at  the  joyous 
laborers  of  the  world.  The  other  has  seen  some- 
what of  many  industries  and  in  recent  years  has 
had  the  great  pleasure  of  living  close  to  many 
books.  To  both  of  us  it  has  seemed  that  many 
well-intentioned  books,  laboriously  setting  forth 
outlines  of  world  industries,  do  not  give,  espe- 
cially to  young  readers,  adequate  impressions  of 
those  industries.  Young  people  are  to-day  more 
earnestly  than  ever  before  seeking  for  light  to 
guide  them  to  the  places  in  the  workshops  of  the 
world  for  which  they  are  best  fitted.  Surely  some 
of  that  light  can  be  found  in  descriptions  of  those 
workshops  written  by  writers  of  insight  and  imagi- 
nation, like  our  novelists.  Hence  this  book.  We 
have  tried  to  gather  from  writings  of  our  novelists 
pages  which  give,  not  the  mere  skeletons  of  the 
occupations  of  men  but  their  very  souls.  In  the 
hands  of  these  novelists  many  occupations  seem 
as  definitely  to  live  as  do  the  men  who  follow  them, 
and  even  to  have  souls,  which,  like  the  souls  of  the 
men  themselves,  are  touched  with  romance. 

257 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  compilers  and  publishers  of  this  book  are 
grateful  to  the  authors  and  publishers  who  have 
generously  allowed  the  use  of  excerpts  from  their 
publications,  and  especially  for  the  cordiality  with 
which  the  permissions  were  given.  The  genuine- 
ness of  our  desire  to  do  a  service  to  young  people 
by  bringing  these  wholesome  and  inspiring  accounts 
of  human  joy  in  labor  together  has  met  cordial 
response.  One  says,  "  I  appreciate  your  wanting 
to  so  use  my  work";  another,  "The  scheme  ap- 
peals to  me  greatly,  and  I  am  delighted  to  be 
included  in  it."  Such  appreciation  of  our  purpose 
gives  double  pleasure. 

To  these  for  the  content  of  our  book. 

For  its  spirit  we  give  thanks  to  Louise  Connolly, 
who  incited,  encouraged,  and  rewarded  our  efforts 
with  the  same  unselfish  wisdom  that  has  inspired 
the  thousands  of  younger  workers  who  have  been 
touched  by  her  spirit. 


Vll 


OCCUPATIONS    DESCRIBED 

PAGE 

Agriculture .     277-287 

Hemp  growing. 
Fishing 61-83 

Salmon  canning.     Whaling. 
Engineering 1-59 

Diving.     Lighthouse  building.     Irrigating. 
Manufacture 85-167 

Glass  making.     Pottery  making.     Cigar  making. 
Cattle  slaughtering. 

Herding .     169-210 

Cattle  driving.    Cattle  branding.    Sheep  shearing. 
Forestry 211-235 

Log  driving. 
Mining 237-255 

Placer  mining. 
Science 257-276 

Moth  collecting. 


TABLE    OF   CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Diver 1 

From  Caleb  West,  by  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.     Published 
by  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

Building  the  Lighthouse 15 

From  Caleb  West,  by  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.     Published 
by  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

Reclaiming  the  Desert 43 

From  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth,  by  Harold  Bell 
Wright.    Copyright  1911.    Published  by  Book  Supply  Co. 

The  Salmon 61 

From  The  Silver  Horde,  by  Rex  Beach.     Published  by 
Harper  Brothers. 

The  Whale 71 

From    The    Cruise  of  the   Cachalot,  by  F.  M.  Bullen. 
Published  by  D.  Appleton  Co. 

Glass-Blowers 85 

From  Marietta,  by  F.  Marion  Crawford.     Published 
by  Macmillan  Co. 

Pottery 125 

From  Brunei's  Tower,  by  Eden  Phillpotts.      Published 
by  Macmillan  Co. 

xi 


Xli  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Cigar-Making 147 

From  V.  V.'s  Eyes,  by  Henry  Sydnor  Harrison.     Pub- 
lished by  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

The  Stock- Yards 157 

From  The  Jungle,  by  Upton  Sinclair.     Published  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

Thk  Cattle  Drive 169 

From    Arizona   Nights,    by   Stewart    Edward    White. 
Published  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

Cattle  Branding 187 

From    Arizona   Nights,   by   Stewart    Edward    White. 
Published  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

Sheep-Shearing 199 

From  Ramona,  by  Helen  Hunt  Jackson.      Published 
by  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

Logging 211 

From  The  Riverman,  by  Stewart  Edward  White.     Pub- 
lished by  McClure  Co. 

Gold 237 

From   Gold,  by  Stewart  Edward  White.     Published 
by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

The  King  of  the  Poets.     Moth  Collecting  .        .        .    257 
From   The  Girl  of  the  Limberlost,   by  Gene  Stratton- 
Porter.     Published  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

Hemp 277 

From  The  Reign  of  Law,  by  James  Lane  Allen.     Pub- 
lished by  Macmillan  Co. 


THE  EOMANCE   OF   LABOR 


THE  DIVER 

From  Caleb  West,  Master  Diver 

BY 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

Some  one  has  recently  invented  an  apparatus  in 
which  men  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  to  take 
photographs  of  the  world  under  the  sea.  But 
Caleb  West,  the  Master  Diver,  went  down  in  his 
own  diver's  suit  to  sit  in  the  waving  sea-kelp  as  he 
helped  lay  the  foundations  of  the  Race  Rock  light- 
house. He  went  down  also,  to  crawl  through  a 
train  of  cars  that  had  fallen  through  a  bridge. 
Francis  Hopkinson  Smith  has  written  all  about  it 
in  his  story. 

To  "Hop"  Smith,  also,  life  was  not  a  task  but 
an  adventure,  and  he  went  forth  to  meet  it  with 
a  gallantry  that  welcomed  toil  and  danger  because 
they  were  the  price  of  achievement. 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


THE  DIVER 

"  We'll  put  Caleb  West  in  charge  of  the  divin'," 
said  Captain  Joe ;  "  ain't  no  better  man'n  Caleb  in  er 
out  a  dress.  Them  enrockments  is  might'  ugly  things 
to  set  under  water,  an'  I  won't  trust  nobody  but 
Caleb  to  do  it.  Bill  Lacey,  he  looks  like  a  skylarkin' 
chap,  but  I  kin  take  that  out  o'  him.  He  kin  climb 
like  a  cat,  an'  we  want  a  man  like  that  to  shin  the 
derricks.  He's  tended  divers,  too,  an'  he'll  do  to 
look  after  Caleb's  life-line  an'  hose  when  I  can't." 

Bill  Lacey  leaned  over  the  sloop's  rail,  scanned 
every  bolt  in  her  plates,  glanced  up  at  the  standing 
rigging,  tried  it  with  his  hand  as  if  it  were  a  tight 
rope,  and  with  a  satisfied  air  said,  "Them  plates 
is  all  right,  —  it's  her  b'iler  that's  a-worryin'  me. 
What  do  you  say,  Caleb?"  turning  to  Caleb  West, 
a  broad-shouldered,  grizzled  man  in  a  sou'wester, 
who  was  mending  a  leak  in  a  diving-dress,  the  odor 
of  the  burning  cement  in  a  pan  beside  him  min- 
gling with  the  savory  smell  of  frying  pork  coming 
up  from  the  galley. 

"Wall,  I  ain't  said,  Billy,"  replied  Caleb  in  a 
cheery  voice,  stroking  his  bushy  gray  beard.  "  Them 
as  don't  know  better  keep  shet." 

3 


4  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

There  was  a  loud  laugh  at  the  young  rigger's 
expense.  Lacey's  face  hardened  under  the  thrust, 
while  Caleb  still  smiled,  a  quaint  expression  over- 
spreading his  features,  —  one  that  often  came  when 
something  pleased  him,  and  which,  by  its  sweet- 
ness, showed  how  little  venom  lay  behind  his  re- 
proofs. 

" Don't  you  like  the  sloop,  Caleb?"  said  Sanford, 
who  had  been  listening.  "  Don't  you  think  she'll 
do  her  work?"  he  continued,  moving  a  rebellious 
leg  of  the  rubber  dress  to  sit  the  closer. 

"Well,  of  course,  sir,  I  ain't  knowed  'er  long 
'nough  to  swear  by  yit.  She's  fittin'  for  loadin'  'em 
on  land,  maybe,  but  she  may  have  some  trouble 
gittin'  rid  of  'em  at  the  Ledge,"  and  the  master 
diver  bent  over  the  pan,  stirring  the  boiling  cement 
with  his  sheath-knife,  the  rubber  suit  sprawled 
out  over  his  knees,  the  awkward,  stiff,  empty  legs 
and  arms  of  the  dress  flopping  about  as  he  patched 
its  many  leaks.  Then  he  added  with  a  quaint  smile, 
"But  if  Cap'n  Joe  says  she's  all  right,  ye  can  pin 
to  her." 

Sanford  moved  a  little  closer  to  Caleb,  holding 
the  pan  of  cement  for  him,  and  watching  him  at 
work.  He  had  known  him  for  years  as  a  fearless 
diver  of  marvellous  pluck  and  endurance ;  one  ca- 
pable of  working  seven  consecutive  hours  under 
water.     When  an  English  bark  had  run  on  top  of 


THE    DIVER  5 

Big  Spindle  Reef  and  backed  off  into  one  hundred 
and  ten  feet. of  water,  the  captain  and  six  of  the 
crew  were  saved,  but  the  captain's  wife,  helpless 
in  the  cabin,  had  been  drowned.  Caleb  had  gone 
below,  cleared  away  the  broken  deck  that  pinned 
her  down,  and  had  brought  her  up  in  his  arms. 
His  helmet  was  spattered  inside  with  the  blood 
that  trickled  from  his  ears,  owing  to  the  enormous 
pressure  of  the  sea.  This  had  been  not  a  twelve- 
month since. 

The  constant  facing  of  dangers  had  made  of  the 
diver  a  quiet,  reticent  man.  There  was,  too,  a 
gentleness  and  restful  patience  about  him  that 
always  appealed  to  Sanford,  and  next  to  Captain 
Joe  he  was  the  one  man  of  the  working  force  whom 
he  trusted  most. 

Caleb  was  not  an  old  man,  if  the  possession  of 
vigor  and  energy  meant  anything.  His  cheeks 
had  the  rosy  hue  of  perfect  health,  and  his  step  was 
lighter  and  more  agile  than  that  of  many  men  half 
his  years.  Only  his  beard  was  gray.  Yet  he  was 
called  by  his  shipmates  old,  for  in  the  hard  working 
world  in  which  he  lived  none  but  the  earlier  years 
of  a  man's  life  counted  as  youth. 

His  cabin,  a  small,  two-story  affair,  bought  with  the 
money  he  had  saved  during  his  fifteen  years  on  the 
Lightship,  lay  a  short  distance  up  the  shore  above  that 
of  Captain  Joe,  and  in  plain  sight  of  the  Screamer, 


6  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

"Come,  men!"  called  Captain  Joe  in  a  com- 
manding voice.  "Pull  yourselves  together.  .  .  . 
Bill  Lacey,  lower  away  that  hook  and  git  them 
chains  ready.  .  .  .  Fire  up,  Cap'n  Brandt,  and 
give  'er  every  pound  o'  steam  she'll  carry.  .  .  . 
Here,  —  one  or  two  of  ye,  run  this  'ere  line  ashore. 
Drop  that  divin'-suit,  Caleb ;  this  ain't  no  time  to 
patch  things." 

These  orders  were  volleyed  at  the  men  as  he 
stepped  from  the  wharf  to  the  sloop,  each  man 
springing  to  his  place  with  alacrity  seldom  seen 
among  men  of  other  crews. 

The  sloop  now  moved  slowly  out  of  the  harbor 
toward  the  Ledge.  When  the  open  harbor  was 
reached,  the  men  overhauled  the  boom-tackle,  get- 
ting ready  for  the  real  work  of  the  day.  Bill  Lacey 
and  Caleb  West  lifted  the  air-pump  from  its  case, 
and  oiled  the  plunger.  Caleb  was  to  dive  that  day 
himself,  —  work  like  this  required  an  experienced 
hand,  —  and  find  a  bed  for  these  first  three  stones 
as  they  were  lowered  under  water.  Lacey  was  to 
tend  the  life-line.  Soon  the  Ledge  itself  loomed 
up.  The  concrete  men  were  evidently  busy,  for 
the  white  steam  from  the  mixers  rose  straight  into 
the  still  air. 

The  tug  continued  on  her  course  for  half  a  mile, 
steered  closer,  the  sloop  following,  and  gained  the 
eddy  of  the  Ledge  out  of  the  racing  tide.     Four  men 


THE    DIVER  7 

from  a  platform  now  sprang  into  a  whaleboat  and 
pulled  out  to  meet  the  sloop,  carrying  one  end  of 
a  heavy  hawser  which  was  being  paid  out  by  the 
men  on  the  Ledge.  The  hawser  was  made  fast  to 
the  sloop's  cleats  and  hauled  tight.  Out-board 
hawsers  were  run  by  the  crew  of  the  whaleboat  to 
the  floating  anchor-buoys,  to  keep  the  sloop  off 
the  stone-pile  when  the  enrockment  blocks  were 
being  swung  clear  of  her  sides. 

Caleb  and  Lacey  began  at  once  to  overhaul  the 
diving-gear.  The  air-pump  was  set  close  to  the 
sloop's  rail ;  and  a  short  ladder  was  lashed  to  her 
side,  to  enable  the  diver  to  reach  the  water  easily. 
The  air-hose  and  life-lines  were  then  uncoiled. 

Caleb  threw  off  his  coat  and  trousers,  that  he 
might  move  the  more  freely  in  his  diving-dress, 
and  with  Lonny  Bowles's  assistance  twisted  himself 
into  his  rubber-suit,  —  body,  arms,  and  legs  being 
made  of  one  piece  of  air-tight  and  water-tight  rubber 
cloth. 

By  the  time  the  sloop  had  been  securely  moored, 
and  the  boom-tackle  made  ready  to  lift  the  stone, 
Caleb  stood  on  the  ladder  completely  equipped, 
except  for  his  copper  helmet,  the  last  thing  done  to 
a  diver  before  he  sinks  under  water.  Captain  Joe 
always  adjusted  Caleb's  himself.  On  Caleb's  breast 
and  between  his  shoulders  hung  two  lead  plates 
weighing  twenty-five  pounds  each,  and  on  his  feet 


8  THE    ROMANCE    OP    LABOR 

were  two  iron-shod  shoes  of  equal  weight.  These 
were  needed  as  ballast,  to  overbalance  the  buoy- 
ancy of  his  inflated  dress,  and  enable  him  to  sink  or 
rise  at  his  pleasure.  Firmly  tied  to  his  wrist  was  a 
stout  cord,  —  his  life-line,  —  and  attached  to  the 
back  of  the  copper  helmet  was  a  long  rubber  hose, 
through  which  a  constant  stream  of  fresh  air  was 
to  be  pumped  inside  his  helmet  and  suit. 

In  addition  to  these  necessary  appointments  there 
was  hung  over  one  shoulder  a  canvas  haversack, 
containing  a  small  cord,  a  chisel,  a  water-compass, 
and  a  sheath-knife.  The  sheath-knife  is  the  last 
desperate  resource  of  the  diver  when  his  air-hose 
becomes  tangled  or  clogged,  his  signals  are  misunder- 
stood, and  he  must  either  cut  his  hose  in  the  effort 
to  free  himself  and  reach  the  surface,  or  suffocate 
where  he  is. 

Captain  Joe  adjusted  the  copper  helmet,  and 
stood  with  Caleb's  glass  face-plate  in  his  hand,  thus 
leaving  his  helmet  open  for  a  final  order  in  his  ear, 
before  he  lowered  him  overboard.  The  cogs  of  the 
Screamer's  drum  began  turning,  followed  by  the 
same  creaking  and  snapping  of  manilla  and  straining 
boom  that  had  been  heard  when  she  was  loaded. 

With  the  starting  of  the  hoisting-engine  the 
steam  began  to  hiss  through  the  safety-valve,  and 
the  bow-lines  of  the  sloop  straightened  out  like 
strands  of  steel.     Then  there  came  a  slight,  stag- 


THE    DIVER  9 

gering  movement  as  she  adjusted  herself  to  the  shift- 
ing weight.  Without  a  sound,  the  stone  rose  from 
the  deck,  cleared  the  rail,  and  hung  over  the  sea. 

"Lower  away/'  said  Captain  Joe  in  the  same 
tone  he  would  have  used  in  asking  for  butter,  as  he 
turned  the  screw  on  Caleb's  face-plate,  shutting 
out  the  fresh  air,  and  giving  the  diver  only  pumped 
air  to  breathe. 

The  stone  sank  slowly  into  the  sea,  the  dust  and 
dirt  of  its  long  outdoor  storage  discoloring  the  clear 
water. 

"Hold  her,"  continued  Captain  Joe,  his  hand 
still  on  Caleb's  face-plate,  as  he  stood  erect  on  the 
ladder.  "  Stand  by,  Billy.  Go  on  with  that  pump, 
men,  —  give  him  plenty  of  air." 

Two  men  began  turning  the  handles  of  the  pump. 
Caleb's  dress  filled  out  like  a  balloon ;  Lacey  took 
his  place  near  the  small  ladder,  the  other  end  of 
Caleb's  life-line  having  been  made  fast  to  his  wrist, 
and  the  diver  sank  slowly  from  sight,  his  hammer  in 
his  hand,  the  air-bubbles  from  his  exhaust  valve 
marking  his  downward  course. 

As  Caleb  sank,  he  hugged  his  arms  close  to  his 
body,  pressed  his  knees  together,  forcing  the  sur- 
plus air  from  his  dress,  and  dropped  rapidly  toward 
the  bottom.  The  thick  lead  soles  of  his  shoes  kept 
his  feet  down  and  his  head  up,  and  the  breast- 
plates steadied  him. 


10  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

At  the  depth  of  twenty  feet  he  touched  the  tops 
of  the  sea-kelp  growing  on  the  rocks  below, — he 
could  feel  the  long  tongues  of  leaves  scraping  his 
legs.  Then,  as  he  sank  deeper,  his  shoes  struck  an 
outlying  boulder.  Caleb  pushed  himself  off,  floated 
around  it,  measured  it  with  his  arms,  and  settled 
to  the  gravel.  He  was  now  between  the  outlying 
boulder  and  the  Ledge.  Here  he  raised  himself 
erect  on  his  feet  and  looked  about ;  the  gravel  be- 
neath him  was  white  and  spangled  with  starfish ; 
little  crabs  lay  motionless,  or  scuttled  away  at  his 
crunching  tread ;  the  sides  of  the  isolated  boulder 
were  smooth  and  clean,  the  top  being  covered  with 
waving  kelp.  In  the  dim,  greenish  light  this  boul- 
der looked  like  a  weird  head,  —  a  kind  of  submarine 
Medusa,  with  her  hair  streaming  upward.  The 
jagged  rock-pile  next  it,  its  top  also  covered  with 
kelp,  resembled  a  hill  of  purple  and  brown  corn 
swaying  in  the  ceaseless  current. 

Caleb  thrust  his  hand  into  his  haversack,  grasped 
his  long  knife,  slashed  at  the  kelp  of  the  rock  pile 
to  see  the  bottom  stones  the  clearer,  and  sent  a 
quick  signal  of  "All  right  —  lower  away!"  through 
the  life-line,  to  Lacey,  who  stood  on  the  sloop's 
deck  above  him. 

Almost  instantly  a  huge  square  green  shadow 
edged  with  a  brilliant  iridescent  light  sank  down 
towards  him,  growing  larger  and  larger  in  its  descent. 


THE    DIVER  11 

Caleb  peered  upward  through  his  face-plate,  fol- 
lowed the  course  of  the  stone,  and  jerked  a  second 
signal  to  Lacey's  wrist.  This  signal  was  repeated 
in  words  by  Lacey  to  Captain  Brandt,  who  held 
the  throttle,  and  the  shadowy  stone  was  stopped 
within  three  feet  of  the  gravel  bottom.  Here  it 
swayed  slowly,  half  turned,  and  touched  the 
boulder. 

Caleb  watched  the  stone  carefully  until  it  was 
perfectly  still,  crept  along,  swimming  with  one 
hand,  and  measured  carefully  with  his  eye  the 
distance  between  the  boulder  and  the  Ledge.  Then 
he  sent  a  quick  signal  of  "Lower  —  all  gone,"  up 
to  Lacey's  wrist.  The  great  stone  dropped  a  chain's 
link;  slid  halfway  the  boulder,  scraping  the  kelp 
in  its  course ;  careened,  and  hung  over  the  gravel 
with  one  end  tilted  on  a  point  of  the  rocky  ledge. 
As  it  hung  suspended,  its  lower  end  buried  itself 
in  the  gravel  near  the  boulder,  while  the  upper  lay 
aslant  up  the  slope  of  the  rock-covered  ledge. 

Caleb  again  swam  carefully  around  the  stone, 
opened  his  arms,  and  inflating  his  dress  rose  five 
or  six  feet  through  the  green  water,  floated  over  the 
huge  stone,  and  grasping  with  his  bare  hand  the 
lowering  chain  by  which  the  stone  hung,  tested  its 
strain.  The  chain  was  as  rigid  as  a  bar  of  steel. 
This  showed  that  the  stone  was  not  fully  grounded, 
and   therefore  dangerous,  being  likely  to  slide  off 


12  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

at  any  moment.  The  diver  now  sent  a  telegram 
of  short  and  long  jerks  aloft,  asking  for  a  crowbar; 
hooked  his  legs  around  the  lowering  chain  and 
pressed  his  copper  helmet  to  the  chain  to  listen  to 
Captain  Joe's  answer.  A  series  of  dull  thuds, 
long  and  short,  struck  by  a  hammer  above  —  a 
means  of  communication  often  possible  when  the 
depth  of  water  is  not  great  —  told  him  that  the 
crowbar  he  had  asked  for  would  be  sent  down  at 
once.  While  he  waited  motionless,  a  blackfish 
pressed  his  nose  to  the  glass  of  his  face-plate,  and 
scurried  off  to  tell  his  fellows  living  in  the  kelp  how 
strange  a  thing  he  had  seen  that  day. 

A  quick  jerk  from  Lacey,  and  the  point  of  the 
crowbar  dangled  over  Caleb's  head.  In  an  instant, 
to  prevent  his  losing  it  in  the  kelp,  he  had  lashed 
another  and  smaller  cord  about  his  middle,  and 
with  the  bar  firmly  in  his  hand  laid  himself  flat 
on  the  stone.  The  diver  now  examined  carefully 
the  points  of  contact  between  the  boulder  and  the 
hanging  stone,  inserted  one  end  of  the  bar  under 
its  edge,  sent  a  warning  signal  above,  braced  both 
feet  against  the  lowering  chain,  threw  his  whole 
strength  on  the  bar,  and  gave  a  quick,  sharp  pull. 
The  next  instant  the  chain  tightened ;  the  bar, 
released  from  the  strain,  bounded  from  his  hand ; 
there  was  a  headlong  surge  of  the  huge  shadowy 
mass  through  the  waving  kelp,  and  the  great  block 


THE    DIVER  13 

slipped  into  its  place,  stirring  up  the  bottom  silt 
in  a  great  cloud  of  water-dust. 

The  first  stone  of  the  system  of  enrockment  had 
been  bedded ! 

Caleb  clung  with  both  hands  to  the  lowering 
chain,  waited  until  the  water  cleared,  knocked  out 
the  Lewis  pin  that  held  the  S-hook,  thus  freeing  the 
chain,  and  signalled  "All  clear  —  hoist."  Then  he 
hauled  the  crowbar  towards  him  by  the  cord,  sig- 
nalled for  the  next  stone,  moved  away  from  the 
reach  of  falling  bodies,  and  sank  into  a  bed  of  sea- 
kelp  as  comfortably  as  if  it  had  been  a  sofa-cushion. 

These  breathing  spells  rest  the  lungs  of  a  diver 
and  lighten  his  work.  Being  at  rest  he  can  manage 
his  dress  the  better,  inflating  it  so  that  he  is  able  to 
get  his  air  with  greater  ease  and  regularity.  The 
relief  is  sometimes  so  soothing  that  in  the  long 
waits  the  droning  of  the  air-valve  will  lull  the  diver 
into  a  sleep,  from  which  he  is  suddenly  awakened 
by  a  quick  jerk  on  his  wrist.  Many  divers,  while 
waiting  for  the  movements  of  those  above,  play 
with  the  fish,  watch  the  crabs,  or  rake  over  the 
gravel  in  search  of  the  thousand  and  one  things  that 
are  lost  overboard  and  that  everybody  hopes  to 
find  on  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Caleb  was  too  expert  a  diver  to  allow  himself 
to  go  to  sleep.  He  sat  quietly  awaiting  his  call. 
Once  a  lobster  moved  slowly  up  and  nipped  his  red 


14  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

fingers  with  its  claw,  thinking  them  some  tidbit 
previously  unknown.  At  another  time  two  tom- 
cods  came  sailing  past,  side  by  side,  flapped  their 
tails  on  his  helmet,  and  scampered  off.  But  Caleb, 
sitting  comfortably  on  his  sofa-cushion  of  seaweed 
thirty  feet  under  water,  paid  little  heed  to  outside 
things. 

Taken  from  Caleb  West,  Master  Diver,  by  Francis  Hop- 
kinson  Smith,  published  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


r 

! 


BUILDING    THE 
LIGHTHOUSE 

From  Caleb  West,  Master  Diver 

BY 

FRANCIS  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

" Captain  Joe"  is  a  Yankee  skipper,  tough,  sturdy, 
tender-eyed,  and  fearless.  He  is  really  Captain 
Tom  Scott,  he  who  helped  Hopkinson  Smith  build 
the  Race  Rock  Lighthouse  in  Long  Island  Sound. 
Mr.  Smith  tells  how  the  work  was  done  in  his  story, 
Caleb  West,  Master  Diver. 

Though  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith  was  of  Southern 
parentage,  his  early  struggles  were  in  New  Jersey 
and  New  York,  where  he  began  life  in  the  shops 
with  his  dinner  pail  like  other  workmen.  Among 
other  things  he  built  a  railroad  in  Long  Island; 
the  sea-wall  protecting  Governor's  Island ;  the 
foundation  and  pedestal  of  the  Statue  of  Liberty, 
New  York  Harbor ;  and  also  the  Race  Rock  Light- 
house. As  an  essayist,  novelist,  and  painter,  he 
has  written  and  illustrated  many  beautiful  stories. 
For  young  people  and  adults. 


BUILDING  THE  LIGHTHOUSE 

At  the  sun's  first  gleam,  Henry  Sanford  had 
waked  with  a  joyous  start.  Young,  alert,  full  of 
health  and  courage  as  he  was,  the  touch  of  its  rays 
never  came  too  early  for  him.  The  sunshine  fell 
across  a  drawing-table  covered  with  the  plans  of 
the  lighthouse  he  was  then  building,  illumined  a 
desk  piled  high  with  correspondence,  and  patterned 
a  wall  upon  which  were  hung  photographs  and 
sketches  of  the  various  structures  which  had  marked 
the  progress  of  his  engineering  career. 

But  it  was  toward  a  telegram  lying  open  on  hie 
desk  that  Sanford  turned.  He  took  it  in  his  hand 
and  read  it  with  the  quiet  satisfaction  of  one  who 
knows  by  heart  every  line  he  studies.  It  was 
headed  Keyport,  and  ran  as  follows :  — 

&ajfr&  CC/VLiri&  Qstoo-fo  a/i,bvv-&c-l  cmd  t,&  cv  &o-vk,&v.       ZttvlL 

foi&ft/i  f8M. 

Dear  old  Captain  Joe,  he's  found  her  at  last," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  laughed  aloud. 
c  17 


18  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

For  months  Captain  Joe  had  been  in  search  of 
a  sloop  of  peculiar  construction,  —  one  of  so  light 
a  draught  that  she  could  work  in  a  rolling  surf, 
and  yet  so  stanch  that  she  could  sustain  the  strain 
of  a  derrick-boom  rigged  to  her  mast.  Without 
such  a  sloop  the  building  of  the  lighthouse  Sanford 
was  then  constructing  for  the  government  on  Shark 
Ledge,  lying  eight  miles  from  Keyport,  and  breasting 
a  tide  running  six  miles  an  hour,  could  not  go  on. 
With  such  a  sloop  its  early  completion  was  assured. 

The  specifications  for  this  lighthouse  provided 
that  the  island  which  formed  its  base  —  an  artifi- 
cial one  made  by  dumping  rough  stones  over  the 
sunken  rock  known  as  Shark's  Ledge  —  should  be 
protected  not  only  from  sea  action,  but  from  the 
thrust  of  floating  ice.  This  Sanford  was  to  accom- 
plish by  paving  its  under-water  slopes  with  huge 
granite  blocks,  to  form  an  enrockment,  —  each 
block  to  be  bedded  by  a  diver. 

The  engineer-in-chief  of  the  Lighthouse  Board 
had  expressed  grave  doubts,  questioning  whether 
a  stone  weighing  twelve  tons  could  be  swung  over- 
board, as  suggested  by  Sanford,  from  the  deck  of 
a  vessel  and  lowered  to  a  diver  while  the  boat  was 
moored  in  a  six  mile  current.  Sanford's  working 
plans  had  finally  been  approved,  however.  He 
had  lacked  only  a  sloop  to  carry  them  out.  This 
sloop  Captain  Joe  had  now  found. 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  19 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  heavy  step  in  the  hall 
outside,  Sanford  sprang  from  his  desk,  and  threw 
the  door  wide  open  to  welcome  the  big,  burly  fel- 
low, —  comrade  and  friend  for  years,  as  well  as 
foreman  and  assistant  engineer  on  his  force. 

"Are  you  sure  she'll  handle  the  stones?"  were 
the  first  words  he  addressed  to'  the  captain,  — 
there  were  no  formalities  between  these  men,  — 
"nothing  but  a  ten-horse  engine,  remember,  will 
lift  them  from  the  dock.  What's  the  sloop's 
beam?" 

"Thirty  foot  over  all,  an'  she's  stiff  as  a  church," 
answered  Captain  Joe,  all  out  of  breath  with  his 
run  up  the  stairs,  —  pushing  his  Derby  hat  back 
from  his  forehead  as  he  spoke.  "An'  her  cap'n 
ain't  no  slouch,  nuther.  I  see  him  yesterday  'fore 
I  come  down.  Looks  ef  he  hed  th'  right  stuff  in 
him.  Says  he  ain't  afeard  o'  th'  Ledge,  an'  don't 
mind  layin'  her  broadside  on,  even  ef  she  does  git 
a  leetle  mite  scraped." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  her  skipper,"  Sanford  said. 
"I  see  his  name  is  Brandt,  and  the  sloop's  name  is 
the  Screamer.  Hope  she'll  live  up  to  her  name. 
Do  you  think  the  shallow  water  round  the  Ledge 
will  scare  him?" 

Captain  Joe  did  not  answer  Sanford's  question 
at  once.  As  he  leaned  over  the  chart  the  sunlight 
played   about  his  face   and  brought  into   stronger 


20  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

relief  the  few  gray  hairs  which  silvered  the  short 
brown  curls  crisped  about  his  neck  and  temples. 
These  hairs  betrayed  the  only  change  seen  in  him 
since  the  memorable  winter's  day  when  he  saved 
the  lives  of  the  passengers  on  the  sinking  ferry-boat 
near  Hoboken  by  calking  with  his  own  body  the 
gash  left  in  her  side  by  a  colliding  tug.  He  was 
still  the  same  broad-as-he-was-long  old  sea-dog; 
tough,  sturdy,  tender-eyed,  and  fearless.  His  teeth 
were  as  white,  his  mouth  was  as  firm,  his  jaw  as 
strong  and  determined. 

The  captain  placed  his  horn-tipped  finger  on  a 
dot  marked  "  Shark's  Ledge  Spindle,"  obliterating 
in  the  act  some  forty  miles  of  sea-space ;  repeated 
to  himself  in  a  low  voice,  "Six  fathoms  —  four  — 
one  and  a  half  —  hum,  'tain't  nothin' ;  that  Cape 
Ann  sloop  can  do  it ;"  and  then  suddenly  remember- 
ing Sanford's  question,  he  answered,  with  quick 
lifting  of  his  head  and  with  a  cheery  laugh,  "Skeer 
him?  Wait  till  ye  see  him,  sir.  And  he  won't 
make  no  protest,  nuther.     He  ain't  that  kind." 

The  sun  was  an  hour  high  when  Sanford  arrived 
at  Keyport  and  turned  quickly  toward  the  road 
leading  from  the  station  to  Captain  Joe's  cottage. 
Below  him  lay  Keyport  village,  built  about  a  rocky 
half-moon  of  a  harbor,  its  old  wharves  piled  high 
with  rotting  oil  barrels  and  flanked  by  empty  ware- 
houses,   behind    which    crouched    low,    gray-roofed 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  21 

cabins,  squatting  in  a  tangle  of  streets,  with  here 
and  there  a  white  church  spire  tipped  with  a  restless 
weather-vane.  At  his  feet  lay  the  brimming  har- 
bor itself,  dotted  with  motionless  yachts  and  va- 
rious fishing-craft,  —  the  click  of  the  rowlocks 
pulsating  in  the  breathless  morning  air. 

On  the  near  point  of  the  half-moon  stood  Keyport 
Light,  built  of  brick,  but  painted  snow-white  with 
a  black  cigar  band  around  its  middle,  its  top  sur- 
mounted by  a  copper  lantern.  On  the  far  point 
of  the  moon,  stretched  the  sea-meadows,  and  be- 
tween these  two  points,  almost  athwart  the  mouth 
of  the  harbor,  like  a  huge  motionless  whale,  lay  Crotch 
Island,  its  backbone  knotted  with  summer  cottages. 
Beyond  the  island  away  out  under  the  white  glare 
of  the  risen  sun  could  be  seen  a  speck  of  purplish- 
gray  fringed  with  bright  splashes  of  spray  glinting 
in  the  dazzling  light.     This  was  Shark's  Ledge. 

As  Sanford  looked  toward  the  site  of  the  new 
Light  a  strange  sensation  came  over  him.  There 
lay  the  work  on  which  his  reputation  would  rest 
and  by  which  he  would  hereafter  be  judged.  He 
walked  down  the  slope  that  led  to  the  long  dock 
fronting  the  captain's  cottage.  As  he  drew  nearer 
he  saw  that  the  Screamer  had  been  moored  between 
the  captain's  dock  and  the  great  granite  wharf, 
which  was  piled  high  with  enormous  cubes  of  stone, 
each  as  big  as  two  pianos. 


22  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

On  her  forward  deck  was  bolted  a  hoisting-engine, 
and  thrust  up  through  the  hatch  of  the  forecastle 
was  the  smoke-stack  of  the  boiler,  already  puffing 
trial  feathers  of  white  steam  into  the  morning  air. 
She  had,  too,  the  heavy  boom  and  stout  mast  used 
as  a  derrick.  Captain  Joe  had  evidently  seen  no 
reason  to  change  his  mind  about  her,  for  he  was 
at  the  moment  on  her  after-deck,  overhauling  a 
heavy  coil  of  manilla  rope,  and  reeving  it  in  the 
block  himself,  the  men  standing  by  to  catch  the  end 
of  the  line. 

These  men  had  enlisted  for  a  war  with  winds  and 
storms  and  changing  seas,  and  victory  meant  some- 
thing more  to  them  than  pay  once  a  month  and 
plum  duff  once  a  week.  It  meant  hours  of  battling 
with  the  sea,  of  tugging  at  the  lines,  waist-deep 
in  the  boiling  surf  that  rolled  in  from  Montauk.  It 
meant  constant,  unceasing  vigilance  day  and  night, 
in  order  that  some  exposed  site  necessary  for  a  bed- 
stone might  be  captured  and  held  before  a  south- 
easter could  wreck  it,  and  thus  a  vantage-point  be 
lost  in  the  laying  of  the  masonry. 

Each  man  took  his  share  of  wet  and  cold  and  ex- 
posure without  grumbling.  The  severity  of  the 
work  was  never  resented.  It  was  only  against 
their  common  enemies,  the  winds  and  the  seas,  that 
murmurs  were  heard.  "Drat  that  wind!"  one 
would  say,   "here    she's    a-haulin'    to    the   east'rd 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  23 

agin,  an'  we  ain't  got  them  j'ints  in  the  masonry 
p'inted."  Sanford  liked  these  men.  He  was 
always  at  home  with  them.  He  loved  their  cour- 
age, their  grit,  their  loyalty  to  one  another  and  to 
the  work  itself.  His  cheery  "Good  morning,"  as 
he  stepped  aboard,  was  as  cheerily  answered,  but  no 
other  demonstration  took  place. 

Close  association  with  Captain  Joe  inspired  a 
peculiar  confidence  and  loyalty  not  only  among  his 
own  men,  but  in  all  the  others  who  heard  his  voice. 

The  sloop  was  now  lying  alongside  the  wharf, 
with  beam  and  stern  lines  made  fast  to  the  out- 
lying water-spiles  to  steady  her.  When  the  tackle 
was  shaken  clear,  the  boom  was  lowered  to  the 
proper  angle ;  the  heavy  chain  terminated  in  an 
enormous  S-hook,  which  hung  directly  over  the 
centre  of  one  of  the  big  enrockment  blocks. 

Captain  Joe  moved  down  the  dock  and  adjusted 
with  his  own  hands  the  steel  "Lewis"  that  was  to 
be  driven  into  the  big  trial  stone.  Important 
details  he  never  left  to  others.  If  this  Lewis  should 
slip,  with  the  stone  suspended  over  the  sloop's 
deck,  the  huge  block  would  crash  through  her 
timbers,  sinking  her  instantly. 

The  Screamer's  captain  was  at  the  throttle,  watch- 
ing the  steadily  rising  steam-gauge. 

"Give  'er  a  turn  and  take  up  the  slack !"  shouted 
Captain  Joe. 


24  THE    ROMANCE    OP    LABOR 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!"  answered  the  skipper  quickly,  as 
the  cogs  of  the  hoisting-engine  began  to  move, 
winding  all  the  loose  slackened  "fall"  around  the 
drum,  until  it  straightened  out  like  a  telegraph 
wire. 

"What's  she  carryin'  now,  Cap'n  Bob?"  again 
shouted  Captain  Joe. 

"Seventy-six  pounds,  sir." 

"Give  'er  time  —  don't  push  'er." 

A  crowd  began  to  gather  on  the  dock :  fishermen 
and  workmen  on  their  way  to  the  village,  idlers 
along  the  shore,  and  others.  They  all  understood 
that  the  trial  of  the  sloop  was  to  be  made  this 
morning,  and  great  interest  was  felt.  The  huge 
stones  had  rested  all  winter  on  this  wharf,  and  had 
been  discussed  and  rediscussed  until  each  one  out- 
weighed the  Pyramids.  Loading  such  pieces  on 
board  a  vessel  like  the  Screamer  had  never  been 
done  in  Keyport  before. 

The  needle  of  the  gauge  on  the  sloop's  boiler 
revolved  slowly  until  it  registered  ninety  pounds. 
Little  puffs  of  blue  vaporless  steam  hissed  from  the 
safety-valve.  The  boiler  was  getting  ready  to  do 
its  duty. 

Captain  Joe  looked  aloft,  so  that  the  lift  would  be 
plumb,  sprang  upon  the  sloop's  deck,  scrutinized 
the  steam-gauge,  saw  that  the  rope  was  evenly 
wound  on  the  drum,   emptied  an  oil-can  into  the 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  25 

sunken  wooden  saddle  in  which  the  butt  of  the 
boom  rested,  followed  with  his  eye  every  foot  of  the 
manilla  fall  from  the  drum  through  the  double 
blocks  to  the  chain  hanging  over  the  big  stone, 
called  to  the  people  on  the  dock  to  get  out  of  harm's 
way,  saw  that  every  man  was  in  his  place,  and 
shouted  the  order,  clear  and  sharp,  — 

" Go  ahead!" 

The  cogs  of  the  drum  of  the  hoisting-engine  spun 
around  until  the  great  weight  began  to  tell ;  then 
the  strokes  of  the  steam-pistons  slowed  down.  The 
outboard  mooring-lines  were  now  tight  as  standing 
rigging.  The  butt  of  the  boom  in  the  sunken  saddle 
was  creaking  as  it  turned,  a  pungent  odor  from  the 
friction-heated  oil  filling  the  air.  The  strain  in- 
creased, and  the  sloop  careened  toward  the  wharf 
until  her  bilge  struck  the  water,  drawing  taut  as 
bars  of  steel  her  outboard  shrouds.  Ominous 
clicks  came  from  the  new  manilla  as  its  twists 
were  straightened  out. 

Captain  Bob  Brandt  still  stood  by  the  throttle, 
one  of  his  crew  firing,  —  sometimes  with  refuse 
cotton  waste  soaked  in  kerosene.  He  was  watch- 
ing every  part  of  his  sloop  then  under  strain  to  see 
how  she  stood  the  test. 

The  slow  movement  of  the  pistons  continued. 

The  strain  on  the  outboard  shroud  became  in- 
tense.    A  dead  silence  prevailed,   broken  only  by 


26  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

the  clicking  fall  and  the  creak  of  the  roller  blocks. 
Twice  the  safety-valve  blew  a  hoarse  note  of 
warning. 

Slowly,  inch  by  inch;  the  sloop  settled  in  the  water, 
stopped  suddenly,  and  quivered  her  entire  length. 
Another  turn  of  the  drum  on  her  deck  and  the  huge 
stone  canted  a  point,  slid  the  width  of  a  dock  plank, 
and  with  a  hoarse,  scraping  sound  turned  half 
round  and  swung  clear  of  the  wharf ! 

A  cheer  went  up  from  the  motley  crowd  on  the 
dock. 

Not  a  word  escaped  the  men  at  work.  The  worst 
was  yet  to  come. 

The  swinging  stone  must  yet  be  lowered  on  deck. 

" Tighten  up  that  guy,"  said  Captain  Joe  quietly, 
between  his  teeth,  never  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
stone ;  his  hand  meanwhile  on  the  fall,  to  test  its 
strain. 

Bill  Lacey  and  Caleb  ran  to  the  end  of  the  dock, 
whipped  one  end  of  a  line  around  a  mooring-post, 
and  with  their  knees  bent  to  the  ground  held  on 
with  all  their  strength.  The  other  end  of  the  guy 
was  fastened  to  the  steel  S-hook  that  held  the 
Lewis  now  securely  in  the  stone. 

"Easy  —  ea-s-y!"  said  Captain  Joe,  a  momen- 
tary shadow  of  anxiety  on  his  face.  The  guy  held 
by  Caleb  and  Lacey  gradually  slackened.  The 
great  stone,  now  free  to  swing  clear,  moved  slowly 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  27 

in  mid-air  over  the  edge  of  the  wharf,  passed  above 
the  water,  cleared  the  rail  of  the  sloop,  and  settled 
on  her  deck  as  gently  as  a  grounding  balloon. 

The  cheer  that  broke  from  all  hands  brought  the 
fishwives  to  their  porches. 

Hardly  had  the  men  ceased  cheering  when  the 
boom  was  swung  back,  another  huge  stone  was 
lifted  from  the  wharf,  and  loaded  aboard  the  sloop. 
A  third  followed,  was  lowered  upon  rollers  on  the 
deck,  and  warped  amidships,  to  trim  the  boat. 
The  mooring-lines  were  cast  off,  and  the  sloop's 
sail  partly  hoisted  for  better  steering,  and  a  nervous, 
sputtering  little  tug  tightened  a  tow-line  over  the 
Screamer's  bow.  They  moved  slowly  out  of  the 
harbor  toward  the  Ledge. 

When  the  open  harbor  was  reached,  the  men 
overhauled  the  boom-tackle,  getting  ready  for  the 
real  work  of  the  day.  Bill  Lacey  and  Caleb  West 
lifted  the  air-pump  from  its  case,  and  oiled  the 
plunger.  Caleb  was  to  dive  that  day  himself,  — 
work  like  this  required  an  experienced  hand,  — 
and  find  a  bed  for  these  first  three  stones  as  they 
were  lowered  under  water.  Lacey  was  to  tend 
the  life-line. 

Soon  the  Ledge  itself  loomed  up.  If  Crotch 
Island  was  like  the  back  of  a  motionless  whale, 
Shark's  Ledge  was  like  that  of  a  turtle,  —  a  turtle 
say  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  by  a  hundred 


28  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

wide,  lying  in  a  moving  sea,  and  always  fringed 
by  a  ruffling  of  surf  curls,  or  swept  by  great  waves 
that  rolled  in  from  Montauk.  No  landing  could 
ever  be  made  here  except  in  the  eddy  formed  by 
the  turtle  itself,  and  then  only  in  the  stillest  weather. 

The  shell  of  this  rock-incrusted  turtle  had  been 
formed  by  dumping  on  the  original  Ledge,  and  com- 
pletely covering  it,  thousands  of  tons  of  rough  stone, 
each  piece  as  big  as  a  cart-body.  Upon  this  stony 
shell,  which  rose  above  high-water  mark,  a  wooden 
platform  had  been  erected  for  the  proper  storage 
of  gravel,  sand,  barrels  of  cement,  hoisting-engines, 
concrete  mixers,  tools,  and  a  shanty  for  the  men. 
It  was  down  by  the  turtle's  side  —  down  below  the 
slop  of  the  surf  —  that  the  big  enrockment  blocks 
were  to  be  placed,  one  on  the  other,  their  sides 
touching  close  as  those  on  a  street  pavement.  The 
lowest  stone  of  all  was  to  be  laid  on  the  bottom  of 
the  sea  in  thirty  feet  of  water ;  the  top  one  was  to 
be  placed  where  the  upper  edges  would  be  thrust 
above  its  splash.  In  this  way  the  loose  rough 
stones  of  the  turtle's  shell  would  have  an  even  cov- 
ering and  the  finished  structure  be  protected  from 
the  crush  of  floating  ice  and  the  fury  of  winter  gales. 

By  a  change  of  plans  the  year  before,  a  deep  hole 
nearly  sixty  feet  in  diameter  had  been  made  in  the 
back  of  this  turtle  by  lifting  out  these  rough  stones. 
This  hole  was  now  being  filled  with  concrete  up  to 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  20 

the  low-water  level  and  retained  in  form  by  circu- 
lar iron  bands.  On  top  of  this  enormous  artificial 
bedstone  was  to  be  placed  the  tower  of  the  light- 
house itself,  constructed  of  dressed  stone,  many  of 
the  single  pieces  to  be  larger  than  those  now  on 
the  Screamer's  deck.  The  four  great  derrick-masts 
with  " twenty-inch  butts"  which  had  been  ordered 
by  telegraph  were  to  be  used  to  place  these  dressed 
stones  in  position. 

The  situation  was  more  than  usually  exposed. 
The  nearest  land  to  the  Ledge  was  Crotch  Island, 
two  miles  away,  while  to  the  east  stretched  the 
wide  sea,  hungry  for  fresh  victims,  and  losing  no 
chance  to  worst  the  men  on  the  Ledge.  For  two 
years  it  had  fought  the  Captain  and  his  men  with- 
out avail.  The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  hates  the 
warning  voice  of  the  fog-horn  and  the  cheery  light 
in  the  tall  tower  —  they  rob  him  of  his  prey. 

A  quarryman  talked  about  the  Ledge,  and  what 
a  rotten  season  it  had  been,  —  nothing  but  south- 
easter since  the  work  opened ;  last  week  the  men 
only  got  three  days'  work.  It  was  terrible  rough 
on  the  boss  paying  out  wages  to  the  men  and  get- 
ting so  little  back ;  but  it  wasn't  the  men's  fault, — 
they  were  standing  by  day  and  night,  catching  the 
lulls  when  they  came ;  they'd  make  it  up  before 
the  season  was  over ;  he  and  Caleb  West  had  been 
up  all  the  night  before  getting  ready  for  the  big 


30  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

derricks  that  Captain  Joe  was  going  to  set  up  as 
soon  as  they  were  ready. 

Sanford  was  saying,  "What  we  are  doing  at  the 
Ledge  requires  mental  pluck  and  brute  grit,  — 
nothing  else.  Scientific  engineering  won't  help  us 
a  bit.  At  Minot's  Ledge,  —  the  light  off  Boston, 
—  they  had  to  chisel  down  a  submerged  rock  into 
steps,  to  get  a  footing  for  the  tower.  But  three  or 
four  men  could  work  at  a  time,  and  then  only  at 
dead  low  water.  They  got  only  one  hundred  and 
thirty  hours'  work  the  first  year.  The  whole 
Atlantic  rolled  in  on  top  of  them,  and  there  was 
no  shelter  from  the  wind.  Until  they  got  the 
bottom  courses  of  their  tower  bolted  to  the  steps 
they  had  cut  in  the  rock,  they  had  no  footing  at 
all,  and  had  to  do  their  work  from  a  small  boat. 
Our  artificial  island  helps  us  immensely ;  we  have 
something  to  stand  on.  And  it  was  even  worse 
at  Tillamook  Rock,  on  the  Pacific  coast.  There 
the  men  were  landed  on  a  precipitous  crag  sticking 
up  out  of  the  sea,  from  breeches  buoys  slung  to  the 
masthead  of  a  vessel.  For  weeks  at  a  time  the 
sea  was  so  rough  that  no  one  could  reach  them. 
They  were  given  up  for  dead  once.  All  that  time 
they  were  lying  in  canvas  tents  lashed  down  to  the 
sides  of  the  crag  to  keep  them  from  being  blown 
into  rags.  All  they  had  to  eat  and  drink  for  days 
was  raw  salt  pork  and  the  rain-water  they  caught 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  31 

from  the  tent  covers.  And  yet  those  fellows  stuck 
to  it  day  and  night  until  they  had  blasted  off  a 
place  large  enough  to  put  a  shanty  on.  Every  bit 
of  material  for  that  lighthouse,  except  in  the  stillest 
weather,  was  landed  from  the  vessel  that  brought 
it,  by  a  line  rigged  from  the  masthead  to  the  top 
of  the  crag;  and  all  this  time  she  was  thrashing 
around  under  steam,  keeping  as  close  to  the  edge 
as  she  dared.  Oh,  there  is  something  stunning  in 
such  a  battle  with  the  elements." 


An  accident  to  the  Screamer  had  delayed  work 
at  the  Ledge  a  few  days,  and  renewed  efforts  had 
been  made  by  Sanford  and  Captain  Joe  to  complete 
to  low-water  mark  the  huge  concrete  disk,  forming 
a  bedstone  sixty  feet  in  diameter  and  twelve  feet 
thick,  on  which  the  superstructure  was  to  rest. 
This  had  been  accomplished  after  three  weeks  of 
work,  and  the  men  stood  in  readiness  to  begin  the 
masonry  of  the  superstructure  so  soon  as  the  four 
great  derricks  required  in  lifting  and  setting  the 
cut  stone  of  the  masonry  could  be  erected. 

These  derricks,  with  their  winches  and  chain  guys, 
were  now  lying  on  the  jagged  rocks  of  the  Ledge, 
where  they  had  been  landed  the  day  before  by  Cap- 
tain Brandt  with  the  boom  of  the  Screamer.  They 
were  designed  to  lift  and  set  the  cut-stone  masonry 


32  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

of  the  superstructure,  —  the  top  course  at  a  height 
of  fifty-eight  feet  above  the  water-line.  These 
stones  weighed  from  six  to  thirteen  tons  each. 

With  the  beginning  of  the  dog-days  the  weather 
had  changed.  Captain  Joe  watched  the  changing 
sky  where  hour  by  hour  were  placarded  the  bulle- 
tins of  the  impending  outbreak,  and  redoubled  his 
efforts  on  the  lines  of  the  watch-tackles  at  which 
the  men  were  tugging,  pulling  the  derricks  to  their 
places. 

By  ten  o'clock  on  the  15th  of  August,  three  of 
the  four  derricks,  their  tops  connected  by  heavy 
wire  rope,  had  been  stepped  in  their  sockets  and 
raised  erect,  and  their  seaward  guys  had  been  made 
fast.  By  noon,  the  last  derrick  —  the  fourth  leg 
of  the  chair,  as  it  were  —  was  also  nearly  perpen- 
dicular, the  men  tugging  ten  deep  on  the  line  of  the 
watch-tackles.  This  derrick,  being  the  last  of  the 
whole  system  and  the  most  difficult  to  handle,  was 
under  the  immediate  charge  of  Captain  Joe.  On 
account  of  its  position,  which  necessitated  the  bear- 
ing of  its  own  strain  and  that  of  the  other  three 
derricks  as  well,  its  outboard  seaward  guy  was  as 
heavy  as  that  of  a  ship's  anchor-chain.  The  final 
drawing  taut  of  this  chain,  some  sixty  feet  in  length, 
stretching,  as  did  the  smaller  ones,  from  the  top  of 
the  derrick-mast  down  to  the  enrockment  block, 
and  the  fastening  of  its  sea  end  in  the  block,  would 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  33 

not  only  complete  the  system  of  the  four  erected 
derricks,  but  would  make  them  permanent  and 
strong  enough  to  resist  either  sea  action  or  any 
weight  that  they  might  be  required  to  lift.  The 
failure  to  secure  this  chain  guy  into  the  anchoring 
enrockment  block,  or  any  sudden  break  in  the  other 
guys,  would  result  not  only  in  instantly  toppling 
over  the  fourth  derrick  itself,  but  in  dragging  the 
three  erect  derricks  with  it.  This  might  mean,  too, 
the  crushing  to  death  of  some  of  the  men ;  for  the 
slimy,  ooze-covered  rocks  and  concrete  disk  on 
which  they  had  to  stand  and  work  made  hurried 
escape  impossible. 

To  insure  an  easier  connection  between  this  last 
chain  and  the  enrockment  block,  Caleb  had  fas- 
tened below  water,  into  the  Lewis  hole  of  the  block, 
a  long  iron  hook.  Captain  Joe's  problem,  which 
he  was  about  to  solve,  was  to  catch  this  hook  into 
a  steel  ring  which  was  attached  to  the  end  of  the 
chain  guy.  The  drawing  together  of  this  hook  and 
ring  was  to  be  done  by  means  of  a  watch-tackle, 
which  tightened  the  chain  guy  inch  by  inch,  the 
gang  of  men  standing  in  line  while  Captain  Joe, 
ring  in  hand,  waited  to  slip  it  into  the  hook. 

The  steady  rhythmic  movement  of  the  men, 
ankle-deep  in  the  water,  swaying  in  unison,  close- 
stepped,  tugging  at  the  tackle-line,  like  a  file  of 
soldiers,  keeping  time  to  Lonny  Bowles's  "  Heave 


34  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

ho,"  had  brought  the  hook  and  ring  within  six  feet 
of  each  other,  when  the  foot  of  one  of  the  men 
slipped  on  the  slimy  ooze  and  tripped  the  man  next 
him.  In  an  instant  the  whole  gang  were  floundering 
among  the  rocks  and  in  the  water,  the  big  fourth 
derrick  swaying  uneasily,  like  a  tree  that  was  doomed. 

" Every  men  o'  ye  as  ye  were!"  shouted  Captain 
Joe.  While  he  was  shouting  he  had  twisted  a  safety- 
line  around  a  projecting  rock  to  hold  the  strain 
until  the  men  could  regain  their  feet.  The  great 
derrick  tottered  for  a  moment,  steadied  itself  like 
a  drunken  man,  and  remained  still.  The  other 
three  quivered,  their  top  guys  sagging  loose. 

"Now  make  fast,  an'  two  'r  three  of  ye  come 
here!"  cried  the  captain  again.  In  the  easing  of 
the  strain  caused  by  the  slipping  of  the  men,  the 
six  feet  of  space  between  hook  and  ring  had  gone 
back  to  ten. 

Two  men  scrambled  like  huge  crabs  over  the 
slippery  rocks,  and  relieved  Captain  Joe  of  the  end 
of  the  safety-line.  The  others  stood  firm  and  held 
taut  the  tug-lines  of  the  watch-tackle.  The  slow, 
rhythmic  movement  of  the  gang  to  the  steady 
" Heave  ho"  began  again.  The  slack  of  the  tackle 
was  taken  up,  and  the  ten  feet  between  the  hook 
and  ring  were  reduced  to  five.  Half  an  hour  more, 
and  the  four  great  derricks  would  be  anchored  safe 
against  any  contingency. 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  35 

The  strain  on  the  whole  system  became  once  more 
intense.  The  seaward  guy  of  the  opposite  derrick 
—  the  one  across  the  concrete  disk  —  shook  omi- 
nously under  the  enormous  tension.  Loud  creaks 
could  be  heard  as  the  links  of  the  chain  untwisted 
and  the  derricks  turned  on  their  rusty  pintles. 

Then  a  sound  like  a  pistol-shot  rang  out  clear 
and  sharp. 

Before  the  men  could  ease  the  strain  one  of  the 
seaward  guys  that  fastened  the  top  of  its  derrick 
to  its  enrockment-block  anchorage  snapped  with 
a  springing  jerk,  writhed  like  a  snake  in  the  air,  and 
fell  in  a  swirl  across  the  disk  of  the  concrete,  barely 
missing  the  men. 

The  gang  at  the  tug-line  turned  their  heads,  and 
the  bravest  of  them  grew  pale.  The  opposite  der- 
rick, fifty  feet  away,  was  held  upright  by  but  a 
single  safety-rope.  If  this  should  break,  the  whole 
system  of  four  derricks,  with  its  tons  of  chain  guys 
and  wire  rope,  would  be  down  upon  their  heads. 

There  was  but  one  chance  left,  to  steady  the  im- 
periled derrick  with  a  temporary  guy  strong  enough 
to  stand  the  strain. 

"Stand  by  on  that  watch-tackle,  every  man  o' 
ye!  Don't  one  o'  ye  move!"  shouted  Captain 
Joe  in  a  voice  that  drowned  all  other  sounds. 

The  men  sprang  into  line  and  stood  in  dogged 
determination. 


36  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

"Take  a  man,  Caleb,  as  quick  as  God'll  let  ye, 
an'  run  a  wire  guy  out  on  that  derrick."  The 
order  was  given  in  a  low  voice  that  showed  the 
gravity  of  the  situation. 

Caleb  and  Lonny  Bowles  stepped  from  the  line, 
leaped  over  the  slippery  rocks,  splashed  across  the 
concrete  disk,  now  a  shallow  lake  with  the  rising 
tide,  and  picked  up  another  tackle  as  they  plunged 
along  to  where  Sanford  stood,  the  water  over  his 
rubber  boots.  They  dragged  a  new  guy  towards 
the  imperiled  derrick. 

Then  came  a  sudden  jerk ;  the  opposite  derrick 
trembled,  staggered  for  a  moment,  and  swooped 
through  the  air  towards  the  men,  dragging  in  its 
fall  the  two  side  derricks  with  all  their  chains  and 
guys. 

"Down  between  the  rocks,  heads  under,  every 
man  o'  ye!"   shouted  the  captain. 

The  captain  sprang  last,  crouching  up  to  his 
neck  in  the  sea,  his  head  below  the  jagged  points 
of  two  rough  stones,  just  as  the  huge  fourth  derrick, 
under  which  he  had  stood,  lunged  wildly,  and  with 
a  ringing  blow  struck  a  stone  within  three  feet  of 
his  head,  —  the  great  anchor-chain  guy  twisting 
like  a  cobra  over  the  slimy  rocks. 

When  all  was  still  Sanford's  anxious  face  rose 
cautiously  from  behind  a  protecting  rock  near  where 
the  first  derrick  had  struck.     There  came  a  cheer  of 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  37 

safety  from  Caleb  and  Bowles,  answered  by  another 
from  Captain  Joe,  and  Sanford  and  the  men  crawled 
out  of  their  holes,  and  clambered  upon  the  rocks, 
the  water  dripping  from  their  clothing. 

Not  a  man  had  been  hurt ! 

"That's  too  bad,  Mr.  Sanford,  but  we  can't 
help  it,"  said  Captain  Joe  in  his  customary  voice. 
"All  hands,  now,  on  these  derricks.  We  got  'er 
git  'em  up,  boys,  if  it  takes  all  night." 

Again  the  men  sprang  to  his  orders.  For  five 
consecutive  hours  they  worked  without  a  pause. 

Slowly  and  surely  the  whole  system,  beginning 
with  the  two  side  derricks,  whose  guys  still  held 
their  anchorage,  was  raised  upright,  Sanford  still 
watching  the  opposite  derrick,  a  new  outward  guy 
having  replaced  the  broken  one. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  the  four  derricks  were 
again  fairly  erect.  The  same  gang  was  tugging  at 
the  watch-tackle,  and  the  distance  between  the 
hook  and  the  ring  was  once  more  reduced  to  five 
feet.  The  hook  gained  inch  by  inch  towards  its 
anchorage.  Captain  Joe's  eyes  gleamed  with  sup- 
pressed satisfaction. 

All  this  time  the  tide  had  been  rising.  Most  of 
the  rough,  above-water  rocks  were  submerged,  and 
fully  three  feet  of  water  washed  over  the  concrete 
disk.  The  wind  too  had  changed  to  the  east.  With 
it   came   a   long,   rolling   swell  that  broke   on  the 


38  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

eastern  derrick,  —  the  fourth  one,  the  key-note  of 
the  system,  the  one  Captain  Joe  and  the  men  were 
tightening  up. 

Suddenly  a  window  was  opened  somewhere  in 
the  heavens,  and  a  blast  of  wet  air  heaped  the  sea 
into  white  caps,  and  sent  it  bowling  along  towards 
the  Ledge  and  the  Screamer  lying  in  the  eddy. 

Captain  Joe,  as  he  stood  with  the  hook  in  his 
hand,  watched  the  sea's  carefully  planned  attack, 
and  calculated  how  many  minutes  were  left  before 
it  would  smother  the  Ledge  in  a  froth  and  stop  all 
work.     But  no  shade  of  anxiety  betrayed  him. 

The  steady  movement  of  the  tugging  men  con- 
tinued, Lonny's  "Heave  ho"  ringing  out  cheerily 
in  perfect  time.  Four  of  the  gang,  for  better  foot- 
hold, stood  on  the  concrete,  their  feet  braced  to  the 
iron  mould  band,  the  water  up  to  their  pockets. 
The  others  clung  with  their  feet  to  the  slippery 
rocks. 

The  hook  was  now  within  two  feet  of  the  steel 
ring,  Captain  Joe  standing  on  a  rock  at  a  lower 
level  than  the  others,  nearly  waist-deep  in  the  sea, 
getting  ready  for  the  final  clinch. 

Sanford,  from  his  rock,  had  also  been  watching 
the  sea.  As  he  scanned  the  horizon,  his  quick  eye 
caught  to  the  eastward  a  huge  roller  pushed  ahead 
of  the  increasing  wind,  piling  it  higher  as  it 
swept  on. 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE  39 

"Look  out  for  that  sea,  Captain  Joe !  Hold  fast, 
men,  —  hold  fast !"  he  shouted. 

Hardly  had  his  voice  ceased,  when  a  huge  green 
curler  threw  itself  headlong  on  the  Ledge,  wetting 
the  men  to  their  arm-pits.  Captain  Joe  had  raised 
his  eyes  for  an  instant,  grasped  the  chain  as  a  brace, 
and  taken  its  full  force  on  his  broad  back.  When 
his  head  emerged,  his  cap  was  gone,  his  shirt  clung 
to  the  muscles  of  his  big  chest,  and  the  water 
streamed  from  his  hair  and  mouth. 

Shaking  his  head  like  a  big  water-dog,  he  waved 
his  hand,  with  a  laugh,  to  Sanford,  volleyed 
out  another  rattling  fire  of  orders,  and  then  held 
on  with  the  clutch  of  a  devil-fish  as  the  next 
green  roller  raced  over  him.  It  made  no  more  im- 
pression upon  him  than  if  he  had  been  an  off- 
shore buoy. 

The  fight  now  lay  between  the  rising  sea  and  the 
men  tugging  at  the  watch-tackle.  After  each  wave 
ran  by  the  men  gained  an  inch  on  the  tightening 
line.  Every  moment  the  wind  blew  harder,  and 
every  moment  the  sea  rose  higher.  Bowles  was 
twice  washed  from  the  rock  on  which  he  stood,  and 
the  newcomer,  who  was  unused  to  the  slime  and 
ooze,  had  been  thrown  bodily  into  the  water-hole. 
Sanford  held  to  a  rock  a  few  feet  above  Captain 
Joe,  watching  his  every  movement.  His  anxiety 
for  the  erection  of  the  system  had  been  forgottei? 


40  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

in  his  admiration  for  the  superb  pluck  and  master- 
ful skill  of  the  surf-drenched  sea-titan  below  him. 

Captain  Joe  now  moved  to  the  edge  of  the  an- 
chor enrockment  block,  standing  waist-deep  in  the 
sea,  one  hand  holding  the  hook,  the  other  the  ring. 
Six  inches  more  and  the  closure  would  be  complete. 

In  heavy  strains  like  these  the  last  six  inches 
gain  slowly. 

"Give  it  to  'er,  men  —  all  hands  now  —  give 
it  to  ;er  !  Pull,  Caleb  !  Pull,  you  — !  Once  more 
—  all  together  —  !     All   to—" 

Again  the  sea  buried  him  out  of  sight.  The  wind 
and  tide  increased.  The  water  swirled  about  the 
men,  the  spray  flew  over  their  heads,  and  the  steady 
pull  went  on. 

With  the  breaking  of  the  next  roller  the  captain 
uttered  no  sound.  The  situation  was  too  grave 
for  explosives ;  they  kne^  then  that  a  crisis  had 
arrived  —  one  that  even  Captain  Joe  feared. 

The  captain  bent  over  the  chain,  one  arm  cling- 
ing to  the  anchorage,  his  feet  braced  against  a 
rock,  the  hook  in  his  hand  within  an  inch  of  the 
ring. 

11  Hold  hard!"  he  shouted. 

Caleb  raised  his  hand  in  warning,  and  the  rhyth- 
mic movement  ceased.  The  men  stood  still. 
Every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  captain. 

"Let  go!" 


BUILDING    A    LIGHTHOUSE 


41 


The  big  derrick  quivered  for  an  instant  as  the 
line  slackened,  stood  still,  and  a  slight  shiver  ran 
through  the  gu}^s.  The  hook  had  slipped  into  the 
ring! 

The  system  of  four  derricks,  with  all  their  guys 
and  chains,  stood  as  taut  and  firm  as  a  suspension 
bridge. 

Captain  Joe  turned  his  head  calmly  towards  the 
platform,  and  said  quietly,  "There,  they'll  stand 
till  hell  freezes  over." 

Taken  from  Caleb  West,  Master  Diver,  by  Francis  Hop 
kinson  Smith,  published  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


RECLAIMING  THE 
DESERT 

From  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth 
BY 

HAROLD   BELL  WRIGHT 

A  baby  girl  was  found  in  the  sands  of  the  Great 
American  Desert  by  some  men  who  were  there  to 
mark  out  highways  and  waterways  for  an  irrigation 
scheme.  Read  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth, 
and  you  will  know  why  she  was  there,  and  what 
fine,  strong  men  they  were  who  found  her,  those 
civil  engineers  who  went  into  the  desert  sands  to 
"blaze  the  trail"  for  civilization.  Our  excerpt 
from  the  book  tells  something  of  the  way  the  work 
is  done,  and  the  dangers  involved  in  the  effort  to 
irrigate  the  "bad  lands." 

Harold  Bell  Wright,  who  wrote  the  story,  lives 

in  the  Imperial  Valley,  a  reclaimed  desert  in  the 

extreme  south-eastern  corner  of  California,  and  has 

intimate   knowledge   of   the   country  he  describes. 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


-*?- 


te. 


RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT 

In  the  making  of  the  Desert  the  canyon  carving, 
delta-building  river  did  not  count  the  centuries  of 
its  labor ;  the  rock-hewing,  beach-forming  waves 
did  not  number  the  ages  of  their  toil ;  the  burning, 
constant  sun  and  the  drying,  drifting  winds  were 
not  careful  for  the  years. 

Somewhere  in  the  eternity  that  lies  back  of  all 
the  yesterdays,  the  great  river  found  the  salt  waves 
of  the  ocean  fathoms  deep  in  what  is  now  the  King's 
Basin  and  extending  a  hundred  and  seventy  miles 
north  of  the  shore  that  takes  their  wash  to-day. 
Slowly,  through  the  centuries  of  that  age  of  all 
beginnings,  the  river,  cutting  canyons  and  valleys 
in  the  north  and  carrying  southward  its  load  of 
silt,  built  from  the  east  across  the  gulf  to  Lone 
Mountain  a  mighty  delta  dam. 

South  of  this  new  land  the  ocean  still  received 
the  river ;  to  the  north  the  gulf  became  an  inland 
sea.  The  upper  edge  of  this  new-born  sea  beat 
helpless  against  a  line  of  low,  barren  hills  beyond 
which  lay  many  miles  of  a  rainless  land.  East- 
ward lay  yet  more  miles  of  desolate  waste.  And 
between  this  sea  and  the  parent  ocean  on  the  west, 

45 


46  THE    ROMANCE    OF    LABOR 

extending  southward  past  the  delta  dam,  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Coast  Range  shut  out  every  moisture- 
laden  cloud  and  turned  back  every  life-bearing 
stream.  Thus  trapped  and  helpless,  the  bright 
waters,  with  all  their  life,  fell  under  the  constant, 
fierce,  beating  rays  of  the  semi-tropical  sun  and 
shrank  from  the  wearing  sweep  of  the  dry,  tireless 
winds.  Uncounted  still,  the  centuries  of  that 
age  also  passed  and  the  bottom  of  that  sea  lay 
bare,  dry  and  lifeless  under  the  burning  sky,  still 
beaten  by  the  pitiless  sun,  still  swept  by  the  scorch- 
ing winds. 

The  place  that  had  held  the  glad  waters  with 
their  teeming  life  came  to  be  an  empty  basin  of 
blinding  sand,  of  quivering  heat,  of  dreadful  death. 
Unheeding  the  ruin  it  had  wrought,  the  river  swept 
on  its  way. 

And  so  —  hemmed  in  by  mountain  wall,  barren 
hills  and  rainless  plains ;  forgotten  by  the  ocean ; 
deserted  by  the  river,  that  thirsty  land  lay,  the 
loneliest,  most  desolate  bit  of  this  Western  Con- 
tinent. 

But  the  river  could  not  work  this  ruin  without 
contributing  to  the  desert  the  rich  strength  it  had 
gathered  from  its  tributary  lands.  Mingled  with 
the  sand  of  the  ancient  sea-bed  was  the  silt  from 
the  far-away  mountain  and  hill  and  plain.  That 
basin  of  Death  was  more  than  a  dusty  tomb  of  a 


RECLAIMING    THE    DESERT  47 

life  that  had  been ;  it  was  a  sepulchre  that  held 
the  vast  treasure  of  a  life  that  would  be  —  would 
be  when  the  ages  should  have  made  the  master 
men,  who  would  dare  to  say  to  the  river:  "Make 
restitution!"  —  men  who  could,  with  power,  com- 
mand the  rich  life  within  the  tomb  to  come  forth. 

But  master  men  are  not  the  product  of  years  — 
scarcely,  indeed,  of  centuries.  The  master  passions, 
the  governing  instincts,  the  leading  desires  and  the 
driving  fears  that  hew  and  carve  and  form  and 
fashion  the  race  are  as  reckless  of  the  years  as  are 
wave  and  river  and  sun  and  wind.  Therefore  the 
forgotten  land  held  its  wealth  until  Time  should 
make  the  giants  that  could  take  it. 

In  the  centuries  of  those  forgotten  ages  that  went 
into  the  making  of  The  King's  Basin  Desert,  the 
families  of  men  grew  slowly  into  tribes,  the  tribes 
grew  slowly  into  nations  and  the  nations  grew  slowly 
into  worlds.  New  worlds  became  old ;  and  other 
new  worlds  were  discovered,  explored,  developed 
and  made  old ;  war  and  famine  and  pestilence  and 
prosperity  hewed  and  formed,  carved  and  built 
and  fashioned,  even  as  wave  and  river  and  sun 
and  wind.  The  kingdoms  of  earth,  air  and  water 
yielded  up  their  wealth  as  men  grew  strong  to  take 
it ;  the  elements  bowed  their  necks  to  his  yoke, 
to  fetch  and  carry  for  him  as  he  grew  wise  to  order ; 
the  wilderness  fled,  the  mountains  laid  bare  their 


48  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

hearts,  the  waste  places  paid  tribute  as  he  grew 
brave  to  command. 

Across  the  wide  continent  the  tracks  of  its  wild 
life  were  trodden  out  by  broad  cattle  trails,  the 
paths  of  the  herds  were  marked  by  the  wheels  of 
immigrant  wagons  and  the  roads  of  the  slow-mov- 
ing teams  became  swift  highways  of  steel.  In  the 
East  the  great  cities  that  received  the  hordes  from 
every  land  were  growing  ever  greater.  On  the 
far  west  coast  the  crowded  multitude  was  build- 
ing even  as  it  was  building  in  the  East.  In 
the  Southwest  savage  race  succeeded  savage  race, 
until  at  last  the  slow-footed  padres  overtook 
the  swift-footed  Indian  and  the  rude  civilization 
made  possible  by  the  priests  in  turn  ran  down 
the  priest. 

About  the  land  of  my  story,  forgotten  under  the 
dry  sky,  this  ever-restless,  ever-swelling  tide  of 
life  swirled  and  eddied  —  swirled  and  eddied,  but 
touched  it  not.  On  the  west  it  swept  even  to  the 
foot  of  the  grim  mountain  wall.  On  the  east  one 
far-flung  ripple  reached  even  to  the  river  —  when 
Rubio  City  was  born.  But  the  Desert  waited,  silent 
and  hot  and  fierce  in  its  desolation,  holding  its 
treasures  under  the  seal  of  death  against  the  coming 
of  the  strong  ones ;  waited  until  the  man-making 
forces  that  wrought  through  those  long  ages  should 
have  done  also  their  work ;    waited  for  this  age  — 


RECLAIMING    THE    DESERT  49 

for  your  age  and  mine  —  for  the  age  of  the  Seer 
and  his  companions. 


The  Seer's  expedition,  returning  from  the  south, 
made  camp  on  the  bank  of  the  Rio  Colorado  twenty 
miles  below  Rubio  City.  It  was  the  last  night  out. 
Supper  was  over,  and  the  men,  with  their  pipes 
and  cigarettes,  settled  themselves  in  various  care- 
less attitudes  of  repose  after  the  long  day.  Their 
sunburned  faces,  toughened  figures  and  worn, 
desert-stained  clothing  testified  to  their  weeks  of 
toil  in  the  open  air  under  the  dry  sky  of  an  almost 
rainless  land.  Some  were  old-timers — veterans  of 
many  a  similar  campaign.  Two  were  new  recruits 
on  their  first  trip.  All  were  strong,  clean-cut, 
vigorous  specimens  of  intelligent,  healthy  manhood, 
for  in  all  professions,  not  excepting  the  army  and 
navy,  there  can  be  found  no  finer  body  of  men  than 
our  civil  engineers. 

Day  after  day  they  rode  from  sunrise  until  dark ; 
studying  the  land,  estimating  distances  and  grades, 
observing  the  courses  of  the  channels  cut  by  the 
overflow  and  the  marks  of  high  water,  noting  the 
character  of  the  soil  and  vegetation ;  sometimes 
together,  sometimes  separated ;  with  Jose  to  select 
their  camping  places  and  to  help  them  with  his 
Indian  knowledge  of  the  country. 


50  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

And  always  at  night,  after  the  long  hard  day, 
when  supper  —  cooked  by  their  own  hands  —  was 
over,  with  pipe  and  cigarettes  they  reviewed  their 
observations  and  compared  notes,  summing  up 
the  results  before  rolling  in  their  blankets  to  sleep 
under  the  stars. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  when  the  world  is  much  older 
and  very  much  wiser,  Civilization  will  erect  a  proper 
monument  to  the  memory  of  such  men  as  these. 
But  just  now  Civilization  is  too  greedily  quarreling 
over  its  newly  acquired  wealth  to  acknowledge  its 
debt  of  honor  to  those  who  made  this  wealth  possible. 

But  the  Seer  and  companion  concerned  themselves 
with  no  such  thoughts  as  these.  They  thought 
only  of  the  possibility  of  converting  the  thousands 
of  acres  of  The  King's  Basin  Desert  into  productive 
farms.     For  this  they  conceived  to  be  their  work. 

They  had  worked  across  the  Basin  to  Lone  Moun- 
tain and  back  to  the  river  to  a  point  nearly  opposite 
the  clump  of  cottonwoods  where  they  had  left  the 
expedition.  To-morrow  night  they  would  be  in 
Rubio  City. 

"Abe,"  said  the  Seer,  "our  intake  would  go  in 
right  here.  We  could  follow  the  old  channel  of 
Dry  River  with  our  canal  about  twenty  miles  out, 
put  in  a  heading  and  lead  off  our  mains  and  laterals." 

For  two  or  three  hours  they  discussed  plans  and 
estimates,  then  the  engineer  shut  his  note-book  with 


RECLAIMING    THE    DESERT  51 

a  snap.  "If  those  New  Yorkers  don't  listen  to 
what  I  can  tell  them  of  this  country  now  they're 
a  whole  lot  slower  than  I  take  them  to  be." 


The  party  that  was  to  make  the  first  survey  in 
the  Desert  was  being  formed  and  equipped  under 
the  direction  of  Abe  Lee.  Horses,  mules,  wagons, 
camp  outfits  and  supplies,  with  Indian  and  Mexican 
laborers,  teamsters  of  several  nationalities  and  here 
and  there  a  Chinese  cook,  were  assembled.  Toward 
the  last  from  every  part  of  the  great  Western  coun- 
try came  the  surveyors  and  engineers  —  sunburned, 
khaki-clad  men  most  of  them,  toughened  by  their 
out-of-door  life,  overflowing  with  health  and  good 
spirits.  They  hailed  one  another  joyously  and 
greeted  Abe  with  extravagant  delight,  overwhelming 
him  with  questions.  For  the  word  had  gone  out 
that  the  Seer,  beloved  by  all  the  tribe,  and  his  lieu- 
tenant, almost  equally  beloved,  were  making  "big 
medicine"  in  The  King's  Basin  Desert.  Not  a 
man  of  them  would  have  exchanged  his  chance  to 
go  for  a  crown  and  sceptre. 

Slowly,  day  by  day,  the  surveying  party  under 
the  Seer  pushed  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  awful 
desolation  of  the  Basin.  They  were  the  advance 
force  of  a  mighty  army  ordered  ahead  by  Good 
Business  —  the  master  passion   of  the  race.     The 


52  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

expedition  was  divided  into  several  smaller  parties,, 
each  of  which  was  assigned  to  certain  defined  dis- 
tricts. 

Every  morning,  from  each  of  these  camps,  squads 
of  khaki-clad  men  bearing  transit  and  level,  stake 
and  pole  and  flag  —  the  weapons  of  their  warfare  — 
put  out  in  different  directions  into  the  vast  silence 
that  seemed  to  engulf  them.  Every  evening  the 
squads  returned,  desert-stained  and  weary,  to  their 
rest  under  the  lonesome  stars. 

Perhaps  the  gray  lizard  that  climbed  to  the  top 
of  a  line  stake  wondered  at  the  strange  new  growth 
that  had  sprung  up  so  suddenly  from  the  familiar 
soil ;  or  perhaps  the  horned-toad,  scuttling  to  cover, 
marveled  at  the  strange  sounds  as  the  stakes  were 
driven  and  man  called  to  man  figures  and  directions. 

These  lines  of  stakes  that  every  day  stretched 
farther  and  farther  into  and  across  the  waste  seemed, 
in  the  wideness  of  the  land,  pitifully  foolish.  Look- 
ing back  over  the  lines,  the  men  who  set  them  could 
scarcely  distinguish  the  way  they  had  come.  But 
they  knew  that  the  stakes  were  there.  They  knew 
that  some  day  that  other,  mightier  company,  the 
main  army,  would  move  along  the  way  they  had 
marked  to  meet  the  strength  of  the  barren  waste 
with  the  strength  of  the  great  river  and  take  for  the 
race  the  wealth  of  the  land. 


RECLAIMING    THE    DESERT  53 

The  work  of  the  expedition  was  nearly  finished. 
The  banker  knew  now  from  the  results  of  the  survey 
and  from  his  own  careful  observations  and  estimates 
that  the  Seer's  dream  was  not  only  possible  from 
an  engineering  point  of  view,  but  from  the  careful 
capitalist's  standpoint  would  justify  a  large  invest- 
ment. Lying  within  the  lines  of  the  ancient  beach 
and  thus  below  the  level  of  the  great  river,  were 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres  equal  in  richness 
of  soil  to  the  famous  delta  lands  of  the  Nile.  The 
bringing  of  the  water  from  the  river  and  its  distri- 
bution through  a  system  of  canals  and  ditches,  while 
a  work  of  great  magnitude  requiring  the  expenditure 
of  large  sums  of  money,  was,  as  an  engineering 
problem,  comparatively  simple. 

As  Jefferson  Worth  gazed  at  the  wonderful  scene, 
a  vision  of  the  changes  that  were  to  come  to  that 
land  passed  before  him.  He  saw  first,  following 
the  nearly  completed  work  of  the  engineers,  an  army 
of  men  beginning  at  the  river  and  pushing  out  into 
the  desert  with  their  canals,  bringing  with  them  the 
life-giving  water.  Soon,  with  the  coming  of  the 
water,  would  begin  the  coming  of  the  settlers. 
Hummocks  would  be  levelled,  washes  and  arroyos 
filled,  ditches  would  be  made  to  the  company  canals, 
and  in  place  of  the  thin  growth  of  gray-green  desert 
vegetation  with  the  ragged  patches  of  dun  earth 
would  come  great  fields  of  luxuriant  alfalfa,  billow- 


54  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

ing  acres  of  grain,  with  miles  and  miles  of  orchards, 
vineyards  and  groves.  The  fierce  desert  life  would 
give  way  to  the  herds  and  flocks  and  the  home  life 
of  the  farmer.  The  railroad  would  stretch  its  steel 
strength  into  this  new  world ;  towns  and  cities 
would  come  to  be  where  now  was  only  solitude  and 
desolation ;  and  out  from  this  world-old  treasure 
house  vast  wealth  would  pour  to  enrich  the  peoples 
of  the  earth.  The  wealth  of  an  empire  lay  in  that 
land  under  the  banker's  eye,  and  Capital  held  the  key. 

But  while  the  work  of  the  engineers  was  simple, 
it  would  be  a  great  work ;  and  it  was  the  magnitude 
of  the  enterprise  and  the  consequent  requirement  of 
large  sums  of  money  that  gave  Capital  its  oppor- 
tunity. Without  water  the  desert  was  worthless. 
With  water  the  productive  possibilities  of  that 
great  territory  were  enormous.  Without  Capital 
the  water  could  not  be  had.  Therefore  Capital 
was  master  of  the  situation,  and,  by  controlling 
the  water,  could  exact  royal  tribute  from  the  wealth 
of  the  land. 

In  obedience  to  its  master  passion  —  Good  Busi- 
ness —  the  race  now  began  pouring  its  life  into  the 
barren  wastes.  In  the  city  by  the  sea  at  the  end  of 
Southwestern  and  Continental  there  was  a  suite 
of  offices  with  real  gold  letters  on  the  ground-glass 
doors  richly  spelling  "The  King's  Basin  Land  and 
Irrigation  Company." 


RECLAIMING    THE    DESERT  55 

From  this  office  went  forth  to  the  advertising 
departments  of  the  magazines  and  papers,  skil- 
fully prepared  copy,  which  in  turn  was  followed  by 
pamphlets,  circulars  and  letters  innumerable.  In 
one  room  a  company  of  clerks  and  bookkeepers 
and  accountants  pored  over  their  tasks  at  desks 
and  counters.  In  another  a  squad  of  stenographers 
filled  the  air  with  the  sound  of  their  typewriters. 
Through  the  doors  of  the  different  rooms  passed 
an  endless  procession ;  men  from  the  front  with 
the  marks  of  the  desert  sun  on  their  faces  —  engi- 
neers, superintendents,  bosses,  messengers,  agents 
—  servants  of  the  Company ;  laborers  of  every  sort 
and  nationality  came  in  answer  to  the  cry  :  "  Men 
wanted!";  special  salesmen  from  foundery,  fac- 
tory and  shop  drawn  by  prospective  large  sales  of 
machinery,  implements  and  supplies ;  land-hungry 
men  from  everywhere  seeking  information  and 
opportunity  for  investment. 

At  Deep  Well  —  which  was  no  well  at  all  — 
on  the  rim  of  the  Basin,  trainloads  of  supplies, 
implements,  machinery,  lumber  and  construc- 
tion material,  horses,  mules  and  men  were 
daily  side-tracked  and  unloaded  on  the  desert 
sands. 

Every  hour  companies  of  men  with  teams  and 
vehicles  set  out  from  the  camp  to  be  swallowed  up 
in  the  silent  distance.     Night   and  day  the  huge 


56  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

mountain  of  goods  was  attacked  by  the  freighters 
who,  with  their  big  wagons  drawn  by  six,  eight, 
twelve,  or  more,  mules,  appeared  mysteriously 
out  of  the  weird  landscape  as  if  they  were  spirits 
materialized  by  some  mighty  unknown  genii  of 
the  desert.  Their  heavy  wagons  loaded,  their 
water  barrels  filled,  they  turned  again  to  the  unseen 
realm  from  which  they  had  been  summoned.  The 
sound  of  the  loud  voices  of  the  drivers,  the  creaking 
of  the  wagons,  the  jingle  of  the  harness,  the  shot- 
like reports  of  long  whips  died  quickly  away ;  while, 
to  the  vision,  the  outfits  passed  slowly  —  fading, 
dissolving  in  their  great  clouds  of  dust,  into  the 
land  of  mystery. 

True  to  the  far-reaching  plans  of  the  Company, 
at  the  largest  and  most  central  of  the  supply  camps, 
located  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Basin,  the  town  site 
of  Kingston  was  laid  out,  and  even  in  the  days  when 
every  drop  of  water  was  hauled  from  three  to  ten 
miles  town  lots  were  offered  for  sale  and  sold  to 
eager  speculators. 

A  year  from  the  beginning  of  the  work  at  the 
intake  at  the  river,  water  was  turned  into  the  canals. 
With  the  coming  of  the  water,  Kingston  changed, 
almost  between  suns,  from  a  rude  supply  camp  to 
an  established  town  with  post-office,  stores,  hotel, 
blacksmith  shop,  livery  stables,  all  in  buildings 
more  or  less  substantial. 


RECLAIMING    THE    DESERT  57 

With  the  coming  of  the  water  also,  the  stream  of 
human  life  that  flowed  into  the  Basin  was  swollen 
by  hundreds  of  settlers  driven  by  the  master  passion 
—  Good  Business  —  to  toil  and  traffic,  to  build 
the  city,  to  subdue  and  cultivate  the  land  and  thus 
to  realize  the  Seer's  dream.  Every  sunrise  saw 
new  tent-houses  springing  up  on  the  claims  of  the 
settlers  around  the  Company  town  and  new  build- 
ings beginning  in  the  center  of  it  all  —  Kingston. 
Every  sunset  saw  miles  of  new  ditches  ready  to 
receive  the  water  from  the  canal  and  acres  of  new 
land  cleared  and  graded  for  irrigation. 

As  the  trying  months  of  the  semi-tropical  summer 
approached,  the  great  Desert,  so  awful  in  its  fierce 
desolation,  so  pregnant  with  the  life  it  was  still  so 
reluctant  to  yield,  gathered  all  its  dreadful  forces 
to  withstand  the  inflowing  streams  of  human  energy. 
In  the  fierce  winds  that  rushed  through  the  moun- 
tain passes  and  swept  across  the  hot  plains  like  a 
torrid  furnace  blast ;  in  the  blinding,  stinging, 
choking,  smothering  dust  that  moved  in  golden 
clouds  from  rim  to  rim  of  the  Basin  ;  in  the  hot  sky, 
without  shred  or  raveling  of  cloud ;  in  the  creeping, 
silent,  poison  life  of  insect  and  reptile ;  in  the  mad- 
dening dryness  of  the  thirsty  vegetation ;  in  the 
weird,  beautiful  falseness  of  the  ever-changing  mi- 
rage, the  spirit  of  the  Desert  issued  its  silent  chal- 
lenge :    the   silent,    sinister,   menacing  threat   of   a 


58  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

desolation  that  had  conquered  by  cruel  waiting  and 
that  lay  in  wait  to  conquer. 

With  a  grim  determination,  nervous  energy, 
enduring  strength  and  a  dogged  tenacity  of  purpose, 
the  invading  flood  of  humanity,  irresistibly  driven 
by  that  master  passion,  Good  Business,  matched 
its  strength  against  that  of  the  Desert  in  the  season 
of  its  greatest  power. 

Steadily  mile  by  mile,  acre  by  acre,  and  at  times 
almost  foot  by  foot,  the  pioneers  wrested  their 
future  farms  and  homes  from  the  dreadful  forces 
that  had  held  them  for  ages.  Steadily,  with  the 
inflowing  stream  of  life  from  the  world  beyond 
the  Basin's  rim,  the  area  of  the  improved  lands 
about  Kingston  extended  and  the  work  in  the  Com- 
pany's town  went  on.  By  midsummer  many  acres 
of  alfalfa,  with  Egyptian  corn  and  other  grains, 
showed  broad  fields  of  living  green  cut  into  the 
dull,  dun  plain  of  the  Desert  and  laced  with  the  silver 
threads  of  water  shining  in  the  sun. 


When  the  King's  Basin  Messenger  announced 
that  a  survey  was  being  made  for  a  railroad  from 
the  main  line  of  the  S.  &  C.  at  Deep  Well  to  Kingston, 
the  news  was  spread  by  the  papers  throughout 
the  surrounding  country  and  from  every  side  the 
swelling  flood  of  life  flowed  in.     Every  section  of 


RECLAIMING    THE    DESERT  59 

the  new  lands  felt  the  influence  of  the  rush.  For 
miles  around  the  towns,  every  vacant  tract  was 
seized  by  the  incoming  settlers.  Town  site  com- 
panies quickly  laid  out  new  towns,  while  in  the 
towns  already  established  new  business  blocks  and 
dwellings  sprang  up  as  if  some  Aladdin  had  rubbed 
his  lamp.  Real  estate  values  advanced  to  un- 
dreamed figures  and  the  property  was  sold,  resold 
and  sold  again.  And  Kingston,  Texas  Joe  said, 
"went  plumb  locoed." 

The  name  of  Jefferson  Worth  was  on  every  tongue. 
Was  not  he  the  wizard  who  commanded  prosperity 
and  wealth  to  wait  upon  The  King's  Basin?  Was 
he  not  the  Aladdin  who  rubbed  the  lamp  ? 

The  methods  of  capital  are  impersonal,  inhu- 
man —  the  methods  of  a  force  governed  by  laws 
as  fixed  as  the  laws  of  nature,  neither  cruel  nor 
kind ;  inconsiderate  of  man's  misery  or  happiness, 
his  life  or  death ;  using  man  for  its  own  ends  — 
profit,  as  men  use  water  and  soil  and  sun  and  air. 
The  methods  of  Jefferson  Worth  were  the  methods 
of  a  man  laboring  with  his  brother  men,  sharing 
their  hardships,  sharing  their  returns ;  a  man  using 
money  as  a  workman  uses  his  tools  to  fashion  and 
build  and  develop,  adding  thus  to  the  welfare  of 
human  kind. 

Taken  from  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth,  by  Harold  Bell 
Wright,  published  by  A.  L.  Burt  Company,  Copyright,  1911. 


.      THE   SALMON 

From  The  Silver  Horde 
BY 

REX  BEACH 

Rex  Beach,  writer  of  novels  and  plays,  studied 
law  in  Chicago  and  went  to  Alaska  with  the  "gold 
rush,"  cutting  wood  for  steamboats,  or  doing  any- 
other  rough  work  as  he  made  himself  acquainted 
with  the  country.  His  Silver  Horde  is  one  of  those 
stirring,  "rattling  good"  stories  that  are  full  of 
action,  dramatic  movement,  and  intensity  of  human 
passions.  It  is  a  tale  of  the  north  of  Alaska.  Love 
and  adventure  crowd  each  other. 

Our  quotation  is  the  vivid  life  story  of  the  sal- 
mon —  from  its  birth,  through  its  venture  to  the 
sea,  its  years  of  wandering,  and  its  struggle  to 
return  to  its  native  waters,  there  to  die. 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


•ay 


THE  SALMON 

"I  dare  say  Kalvik  is  rather  lively  during  the 
summer  season/'  Emerson  remarked  to  Cherry. 

"Yes;  the  ships  arrive  in  May,  and  the  fish 
begin  to  run  in  July.     After  that  nobody  sleeps." 

"It  must  be  rather  interesting/'  he  observed. 

"It  is  more  than  that;  it  is  inspiring.  Why, 
the  story  of  the  salmon-  is  an  epic  in  itself.  You 
know  they  live  in  a  cycle  of  four  years,  no  more, 
always  returning  to  the  waters  of  their  nativity 
to  die ;  and  I  have  heard  it  said  that  during  one  of 
those  four  years  they  disappear,  no  one  knows 
where,  reappearing  out  of  the  mysterious  depths  of 
the  sea  as  if  at  a  signal.  They  come  by  the  legion, 
in  countless  scores  of  thousands ;  and  when  once 
they  have  tasted  the  waters  of  their  birth  they 
never  touch  food  again,  never  cease  their  onward 
rush  until  they  become  bruised  and  battered  wrecks, 
drifting  down  from  the  spawning-beds.  When  the 
call  of  nature  is  answered  and  the  spawn  is  laid, 
they  die.  They  never  seek  the  salt  sea  again,  but 
carpet  the  river  with  their  bones.  When  they  feel 
the  homing  impulse  they  come  from  the  remotest 

63 


64  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

depths,  heading  unerringly  for  the  particular  par- 
ent stream  whence  they  originated.  If  sand-bars 
should  block  their  course  in  dry  seasons  or  obstacles 
intercept  them,  they  will  hurl  themselves  out  of 
the  water  in  an  endeavor  to  get  across.  They 
may  disregard  a  thousand  rivers,  one  by  one ;  but 
when  they  finally  taste  the  sweet  currents  which 
flow  from  their  birthplaces  their  whole  nature 
changes,  and  even  their  physical  features  alter : 
they  grow  thin,  and  the  head  takes  the  sinister 
curve  of  the  preying  bird." 

"I  had  no  idea  they  acted  that  way/'  said  Emer- 
son.    "You  paint  a  vivid  picture." 

"That's  because  they  interest  me.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  these  fisheries  are  more  interesting  than 
any  place  I  have  ever  seen.  Why,  you  ought 
to  witness  the  'run.'  These  empty  waters  become 
suddenly  crowded,  and  the  fish  come  in  a  great 
silver  horde,  which  races  up,  up,  up  toward  death 
and  obliteration.  They  come  with  the  violence  of 
a  summer  storm.  Like  a  prodigious  gleaming  army 
they  swarm  and  bend  forward,  eager,  undeviating, 
one-purposed.  It's  quite  impossible  to  describe 
it  —  this  great  silver  horde.  They  are  entirely  de- 
fenceless, of  course,  and  almost  every  living  thing 
preys  upon  them.  The  birds  congregate  in  millions, 
the  four-footed  beasts  come  down  from  the  hills, 
the  Apaches  of  the  sea  harry  them  in  dense  groves, 


THE    SALMON  65 

and  even  man  appears  from  distant  coasts  to  take 
his  toll ;  but  still  they  press  bravely  on.  The  clank 
of  machinery  makes  the  hills  rumble,  the  hiss  of 
steam  and  the  sighs  of  the  soldering-furnaces  are 
like  the  complaint  of  some  giant  overgorging  himself. 
The  river  swarms  with  the  fleets  of  fish-boats,  which 
skim  outward  with  the  dawn  to  flit  homeward  again 
at  twilight  and  settle  like  a  vast  brood  of  white- 
winged  gulls.  Men  let  the  hours  go  by  unheeded, 
and  forget  to  sleep." 

"What  sort  of  men  do  they  hire?" 

"Chinese,  Japs,  and  Italians,  mainly.  It's  like 
a  foreign  country  here,  only  there  are  no  women. 
The  bunk-rooms  are  filled  with  opium  fumes  and 
noisy  with  clacking  tongues.  On  one  side  of  the 
village  streets  the  Orientals  burn  incense  to  their 
Joss,  across  the  way  the  Latins  worship  the  Virgin. 
They  work  side  by  side  all  day  until  they  are  ready 
to  drop." 

"How  long  does  it  all  last?" 

"Only  about  six  weeks;  then  the  furnace  fires 
die  out,  the  ships  are  loaded,  the  men  go  to  sleep, 
and  the  breezes  waft  them  out  into  the  August 
haze,  after  which  Kalvik  sags  back  into  its  ten 
months'  coma,  becoming,  as  you  see  it  now,  a  dead, 
deserted  village,  shunned  by  man." 

"Jove!  you  have  a  graphic  tongue,"  said  Emer- 
son appreciatively.     "But  I  don't    see  how   those 


66  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

huge  plants  can  pay  for  their  upkeep  with  such  a 
short  run." 

"Well,  they  do;  and,  what's  more,  they  pay 
tremendously ;  sometimes  a  hundred  per  cent  a 
year  or  more." 

"Impossible!"  Emerson  was  now  thoroughly 
aroused,  and  Cherry  continued  : 

"Two  years  ago  a  ship  sailed  into  port  in  early 
May  loaded  with  an  army  of  men,  with  machinery, 
lumber,  coal,  and  so  forth.  They  landed,  built 
the  plant,  and  had  it  ready  to  operate  by  the  time 
the  run  started.  They  made  their  catch,  and  sailed 
away  in  August  with  enough  salmon  in  the  hold 
to  pay  twice  over  for  the  whole  thing.  Next  sea- 
son will  be  another  big  year." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Every  fourth  season  the  run  is  large;  nobody 
knows  why." 

"I  had  no  idea  there  were  such  profits  in  the  fish- 
eries up  here." 

"  Nobody  knows  it  outside  of  those  interested. 
The  Kalvik  River  is  the  most  wonderful  salmon 
river  in  the  world,  for  it  has  never  failed  once. 
That's  why  the  Companies  guard  it  so  jealously. 
You  see,  it  is  set  away  off  here  in  one  corner  of 
Behring  Sea  without  means  of  communication  or 
access,  and  they  intend  to  keep  it  so." 

******* 


THE    SALMON  67 

The  main  body  of  salmon  struck  the  Kalvik 
River  on  the  first  day  of  July.  For  a  week  past 
the  run  had  been  slowly  growing,  while  the  canneries 
tested  themselves ;  but  on  the  opening  day  of  the 
new  month  the  horde  issued  boldly  forth  from  the 
depths  of  the  sea,  and  the  battle  began  in  earnest. 
They  came  during  the  hush  of  the  dawn,  a  mad, 
crowding  throng  from  No  Man's  Land,  to  wake  the 
tide-rips  and  people  the  shimmering  reaches  of  the 
bay,  lashing  them  to  sudden  life  and  fury.  Out- 
side, the  languorous  ocean  heaved  as  smiling  and 
serene  as  ever,  but  within  the  harbor  a  wondrous 
change  occurred. 

As  if  in  answer  to  some  deep-sea  signal,  the  tides 
were  quickened  by  a  coursing  multitude,  steadfast 
and  unafraid,  yet  foredoomed  to  die  by  the  hand 
of  man,  or  else  more  surely  by  the  serving  of  their 
destiny.  Clad  in  their  argent  mail  of  blue  and  green, 
they  worked  the  bay  to  madness  ;  they  overwhelmed 
the  waters,  surging  forward  in  great  droves  and 
columns,  hesitating  only  long  enough  to  frolic  with 
the  shifting  currents,  as  if  rejoicing  in  their  strength 
and  beauty. 

At  times  they  swam  with  cleaving  fins  exposed ; 
again  they  churned  the  placid  waters  until  swift 
combers  raced  across  the  shallow  bars  like  tidal 
waves,  while  the  deeper  channels  were  shot  through 
With  the  shadowy  forms  or  pierced  by  the  lightning 


68  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

glint  of  silvered  bellies.  They  streamed  in  with 
the  flood  tide  to  retreat  again  with  the  ebb,  but 
there  was  neither  haste  nor  caution  in  their  prog- 
ress ;  they  had  come  in  answer  to  the  breeding 
call  of  the  sea,  and  its  exultation  was  upon  them, 
driving  them  resistlessly  onward.  They  had  no 
voice  against  its  overmastering  spell. 

Mustering  in  the  early  light  like  a  swarm  of  giant 
white-winged  moths,  the  fishing-boats  raced  forth 
with  the  flowing  tide,  urged  by  sweep  and  sail  and 
lusty  sinews.  Paying  out  their  hundred-fathom 
nets,  they  drifted  over  the  banks  like  flocks  of  rest- 
ing sea-gulls,  only  to  come  ploughing  back  again 
deep  laden  with  their  spoils.  Grimy  tugboats 
lay  beside  the  traps,  shrilling  the  air  with  creaking 
winches  as  they  "brailed"  the  struggling  fish,  a 
half-ton  at  a  time,  from  the  "pounds,"  now  churned 
to  milky  foam  by  the  ever-growing  throng  of  pris- 
oners ;  and  all  the  time  the  big  plants  gulped  the 
sea  harvest,  faster  and  faster,  clanking  and  gnash- 
ing their  metal  jaws,  while  the  mounds  of  salmon 
lay  hip-deep  to  the  crews  that  fed  the  butchering 
machines. 

The  Iron  Chink,  or  mechanical  cleaner,  is  per- 
haps the  most  ingenious  of  the  many  labor-saving 
devices  used  in  the  salmon  fisheries.  It  is  an  awk- 
ward-looking, yet  very  effective  contrivance  of 
revolving   knives   and   conveyors   which   seizes   the 


THE    SALMON  69 

fish  whole  and  delivers  it  cleaned,  clipped,  cut, 
and  ready  to  be  washed.  With  superhuman 
dexterity  it  does  the  work  of  twenty  lightning- 
like butchers. 

Now  dawned  a  period  of  feverish  activity  wherein 
no  one  might  rest  short  of  actual  exhaustion.  Haste 
became  the  cry,  and  comfort  fled. 

Big  George,  when  he  had  fully  grasped  the  situa- 
tion, became  the  boss  fishermen  on  the  instant ; 
before  the  others  had  reached  the  cook-house  he  was 
busied  in  laying  out  his  crews  and  distributing  his 
gear.  That  night  the  floors  of  the  fish-dock  groaned 
beneath  a  weight  of  silver-sided  salmon  piled  waist- 
high  to  a  tall  man.  All  through  the  cool,  dim-lit 
hours  the  ranks  of  Chinese  butchers  hacked  and 
slit  and  slashed  with  swift,  sure,  tireless  strokes, 
while  the  great  building  echoed  hollowly  to  the 
clank  of  machines  and  the  hissing  sig'As  of  the  sol- 
dering-furnaces.  There  before  him  were  thousands 
of  salmon.  They  were  strewn  in  a  great  mass  upon 
the  dock  and  inside  the  shed,  while  from  the  scow 
beneath  they  came  in  showers  as  the  handlers  tossed 
them  upward  from  their  pues.  Through  the  wide 
doors  he  saw  the  backs  of  the  butchers  busily  at 
work  over  their  tables,  and  heard  the  uproar  of 
the  cannery  running  full  for  the  first  time. 

"Where  did  those  fish  come  from?"  Emerson 
asked. 


70 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 


"From  the  trap."  George  smiled.  "They've 
struck  in  like  I  knew  they  would,  and  they're 
running  now  by  the  thousands.  I've  fished  these 
waters  for  years,  but  I  never  seen  the  likes  of  it. 
They'll  tear  that  trap  to  pieces.  They're  smother- 
ing in  the  pot,  tons  and  tons  of  'em,  with  millions 
more  milling  below  the  leads  because  they  can't 
get  in.  It's  a  sight  you'll  not  see  once  in  a  lifetime. 
We've  got  fish  enough  to  run  two  canneries. 
They've  struck  their  gait,  I  tell  you,  and  they'll 
never  stop  now  night  or  day  till  they're  through." 

He  flung  out  a  long,  hairy  arm,  bared  half  to  the 
shoulder,  and  waved  it  exultantly.  "We  built 
this  plant  to  cook  forty  thousand  salmon  a  day, 
but  I'll  bring  you  three  thousand  every  hour,  and 
you've  got  to  cook  them.     Do  you  hear?" 

Taken  from  The  Silver  Horde,  by  Rex  Beach,  published  by 
Harper  &  Brothers. 


THE  WHALE 

From  The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot 

BY 
FRANK  T.   BULLEN 

A  little  street  boy  of  London  who  had  been  told 
to  "move  on,"  day  after  day,  and  was  hungry  and 
cold,  ran  away  to  sea,  just  to  get  food  and  shelter. 
He  found  himself  on  a  South  Sea  whaler  in  pursuit 
of  the  Cachalot,  which  is  the  Sperm-whale,  sought 
because  of  the  oil  and  whalebone  which  it  furnishes. 
Frank  Thomas  Bullen  was  the  boy,  and  in  his  story 
of  The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot  he  tells  from  a  seaman's 
standpoint  of  the  methods  used  and  the  dangers 
faced  while  "whaling." 

From  street  waif,  through  the  forecastle  to  the 
post  of  chief  mate,  and  then  the  Meteorological 
Office  in  London,  Bullen  rose  to  be  a  well-known 
story  writer  and  lecturer. 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


tap* 


THE  WHALE 

" There  she  white-waters!  Ah,  bl-o-o-o-o-o-w, 
blow,  blow!"  sang  Louis;  and  then,  in  another 
tone,  "Sparm  whale,  sir;  big  'lone  fish,  headin' 
'beout  east-by-nothe."  "All  right.  'Way  down 
from  aloft,"  answered  the  skipper,  who  was  already 
halfway  up  the  main-rigging;  and  like  squirrels 
we  slipped  out  of  our  hoops  and  down  the  back 
stays.  But  as  the  whale  was  at  least  seven  miles 
away,  and  we  had  a  fair  wind  for  him,  there  was  no 
hurry  to  lower,  so  we  all  stood  at  attention  by  our 
respective  boats,  waiting  for  the  signal. 

" Lower  away  boats!"  came  pealing  down  from 
the  skipper's  lofty  perch,  succeeded  instantly  by 
the  rattle  of  the  patent  blocks  as  the  falls  flew 
through  them,  while  the  four  beautiful  craft  took 
the  water  with  an  almost  simultaneous  splash.  To 
shove  off  and  hoist  sail  was  the  work  of  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  with  a  fine  working  breeze  away  we 
went.  According  to  expectations,  down  he  went 
when  we  were  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  him, 
but  quietly  and  with  great  dignity,  elevating  his 
tail  perpendicularly  in  the  air,  and  sinking  slowly 
from  our  view. 

73 


74  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

The  scene  was  very  striking.  Overhead,  a  bright 
blue  sky  just  fringed  with  fleecy  little  clouds ; 
beneath,  a  deep  blue  sea  with  innumerable  tiny 
wavelets  dancing  and  glittering  in  the  blaze  of  the 
sun ;  but  all  swayed  in  one  direction  by  a  great, 
solemn  swell  that  rolled  from  east  to  west,  like  the 
measured  breathing  of  some  world-supporting  mon- 
ster. Four  little  craft  in  a  group,  with  twenty-four 
men  in  them,  silently  waiting  for  battle  with  one  of 
the  mightiest  of  God's  creatures  —  one  that  was 
indeed  a  terrible  foe  to  encounter  were  he  but  wise 
enough  to  make  the  best  use  of  his  opportunities. 
Against  him  we  came  with  our  puny  weapons,  of 
which  I  could  not  help  reminding  myself  that  "he 
laugheth  at  the  shaking  of  a  spear."  But  when  the 
man's  brain  was  thrown  into  the  scale  against  the 
instinct  of  the  brute,  the  contest  looked  less  unequal 
than  at  first  sight,  for  there  is  the  secret  of  success. 
My  musings  were  suddenly  interrupted.  Whether 
we  had  overrun  our  distance,  or  the  whale,  who 
was  not  "making  a  passage,"  but  feeding,  had 
changed  his  course,  I  do  not  know ;  but,  anyhow,  he 
broke  water  close  ahead,  coming  straight  for  our 
boat.  His  great  black  head,  like  the  broad  bow  of 
a  dumb  barge,  driving  the  waves  before  it,  loomed 
high  and  menacing  to  me.  But  coolly  as  if  coming 
alongside  the  ship  the  mate  bent  the  big  steer- 
oar,  and  swung  the  boat  off  at  right  angles  to  her 


THE    WHALE  75 

course,  bringing  her  back  again  with  another  broad 
sheer  as  the  whale  passed  foaming.  This  manoeuvre 
brought  us  side  by  side  with  him  before  he  had  time 
to  realize  that  we  were  there.  Up  till  that  instant 
he  evidently  had  not  seen  us,  and  his  surprise  was 
correspondingly  great.  To  see  Louis  raise  his 
harpoon  high  above  his  head,  and  with  a  hoarse 
grunt  of  satisfaction  plunge  it  into  the  black,  shin- 
ing mass  beside  him  up  to  the  hitches,  was  indeed 
a  sight  to  be  remembered.  Quick  as  thought  he 
snatched  up  a  second  harpoon,  and  as  the  whale 
rolled  from  us  it  flew  from  his  hands,  burying  itself 
like  the  former  one  but  lower  in  the  body.  The 
great  impetus  we  had  when  we  reached  the  whale 
carried  us  a  long  way  past  him,  out  of  all  danger 
from  his  struggles.  No  hindrance  was  experienced 
from  the  line  by  which  we  were  connected  with 
the  whale,  for  it  was  loosely  coiled  in  a  space  for  the 
purpose  in  the  boat's  bow  to  the  extent  of  two 
hundred  feet,  and  this  was  cast  overboard  by  the 
harpooner  as  soon  as  the  fish  was  fast.  He  made  a 
fearful  to-do  over  it,  rolling  completely  over  several 
times  backward  and  forward,  at  the  same  time  smit- 
ing the  sea  with  his  mighty  tail,  making  an  almost 
deafening  noise  and  pother.  But  we  were  comfort- 
able enough,  while  we  unshipped  the  mast  and  made 
ready  for  action,  being  sufficiently  far  away  from 
him  to  escape  the  full  effect  of  his  gambols. 


76  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

After  the  usual  time  spent  in  furious  attempts 
to  free  himself  from  our  annoyance,  he  betook 
himself  below,  leaving  us  to  await  his  return,  and 
hasten  it  as  much  as  possible  by  keeping  a  severe 
strain  upon  the  line.  Our  efforts  in  this  direction, 
however,  did  not  seem  to  have  any  effect  upon  him 
at  all.  Flake  after  flake  ran  out  of  the  tubs,  until 
we  were  compelled  to  hand  the  end  of  our  line  to 
the  second  mate  to  splice  his  own  on  to.  Still  it 
slipped  away,  and  at  last  it  was  handed  to  the 
third  mate,  whose  two  tubs  met  the  same  fate.  It 
was  now  Mistah  Jones'  turn  to  "bend  on,"  which 
he  did  with  many  chuckles  as  of  a  man  who  was 
the  last  resource  of  the  unfortunate.  But  his  face 
grew  longer  and  longer  as  the  never-resting  line 
continued  to  disappear.  Soon  he  signalled  us  that 
he  was  nearly  out  of  line,  and  two  or  three  minutes 
after  he  bent  on  his  " drogue"  (a  square  piece  of 
plank  with  a  rope  tail  spliced  into  its  centre,  and 
considered  to  hinder  a  whale's  progress  at  least  as 
much  as  four  boats),  and  let  go  the  end.  We  had 
each  bent  on  our  drogues  in  the  same  way,  when 
we  passed  our  ends  to  one  another.  So  now  our 
friend  was  getting  along  somewhere  below  with 
7200  feet  of  1-^  inch  rope,  and  weight  additional 
equal  to  the  drag  of  sixteen  30-feet  boats. 

Of  course  we  knew  that,  unless  he  were  dead  and 
sinking,  he  could  not  possibly  remain  much  longer 


THE    WHALE  77 

beneath  the  surface.  Therefore,  we  separated  as 
widely  as  was  thought  necessary,  in  order  to  be 
near  him  on  his  arrival.  It  was,  as  might  be  im- 
agined, some  time  before  we  saw  the  light  of  his 
countenance ;  but  when  we  did,  we  had  no  difficulty 
in  getting  alongside  of  him  again.  My  friend  Go- 
liath, much  to  my  delight,  got  there  first,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  picking  up  the  bight  of  the  line.  But 
having  done  so,  his  chance  of  distinguishing  himself 
was  gone.  Hampered  by  the  immense  quantity 
of  sunken  line  which  was  attached  to  the  whale, 
he  could  do  nothing,  and  soon  received  orders  to 
cut  the  bight  of  the  line  and  pass  the  whale's  end 
to  us.  He  had  hardly  obeyed,  with  a  very  bad 
grace,  when  the  whale  started  off  to  windward  with 
us  at  a  tremendous  rate.  The  other  boats,  having 
no  line,  could  do  nothing  to  help,  so  away  we  went 
alone,  with  barely  a  hundred  fathoms  of  line,  in 
case  he  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  sound  again. 
The  speed  at  which  he  went  made  it  appear  as  if  a 
gale  of  wind  was  blowing,  and  we  flew  along  the  sea 
surface,  leaping  from  crest  to  crest  of  the  waves 
with  a  succession  of  cracks  like  pistol-shots.  The 
flying  spray  drenched  us  and  prevented  us  from  see- 
ing him.  One  hand  was  kept  bailing  the  water  out 
which  came  so  freely  over  the  bows,  but  all  the  rest 
hauled  with  all  their  might  upon  the  line,  hoping 
to  get  a  little  closer  to  the  flying  monster.     Inch  by 


78  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

inch  we  gained  on  him,  encouraged  by  the  hoarse 
objugations  of  the  mate,  whose  excitement  was 
intense.  After  what  seemed  a  terribly  long  chase, 
we  found  his  speed  slackening,  and  we  redoubled 
our  efforts.  Now  we  were  close  upon  him ;  now, 
in  obedience  to  the  steersman,  the  boat  sheered  out 
a  bit,  and  we  were  abreast  of  his  laboring  flukes ; 
now  the  mate  hurls  his  quivering  lance  with  such 
hearty  good-will  that  every  inch  of  its  slender  shaft 
disappears  within  the  huge  body.  "Lay  off!  Off 
with  her,  Louey!"  screamed  the  mate;  and  she 
gave  a  wide  sheer  away  from  the  whale,  not  a  sec- 
ond too  soon.  Up  flew  that  awful  tail,  descending 
with  a  crash  upon  the  water  not  two  feet  from  us. 
"Out  oars!  Pull,  two!  starn,  three!"  shouted 
the  mate ;  and  as  we  obeyed,  our  foe  turned  to 
fight.  Then  one  might  see  how  courage  and  skill 
were  such  mighty  factors  in  the  apparently  unequal 
contest.  The  whale's  great  length  made  it  no  easy 
job  for  him  to  turn,  while  our  boat,  with  two  oars 
a-side,  and  the  great  leverage  at  the  stern  supplied 
by  the  nineteen-foot  steer-oar,  circled,  backed,  and 
darted  ahead  like  a  living  thing  animated  by  the 
mind  of  our  commander.  When  the  leviathan 
settled,  we  gave  a  wide  berth  to  his  probable  place 
of  ascent ;  when  he  rushed  at  us,  we  dodged  him ; 
when  he  paused,  if  only  momentarily,  in  we  flew, 
and  got  home  a  fearful  thrust  of  the  deadly  lance. 


THE    WHALE  79 

Suddenly  the  mate  gave  a  howl:  "Starn  all  — 
starn  all!  oh,  starn!"  and  the  oars. bent  like  canes 
as  we  obeyed.  There  was  an  upheaval  of  the  sea 
just  ahead ;  then,  slowly,  majestically,  the  vast 
body  of  our  foe  rose  into  the  air.  Up,  up  it  went, 
while  my  heart  stood  still,  until  the  whole  of  that 
immense  creature  hung  on  high,  apparently  motion- 
less, and  then  fell  —  a  hundred  tons  of  solid  flesh 
—  back  into  the  sea.  On  either  side  of  that  moun- 
tainous mass  the  waters  rose  in  shining  towers  of 
snowy  foam,  which  fell  in  their  turn,  whirling  and 
eddying  around  us  as  we  tossed  and  fell  like  a  chip 
in  a  whirlpool.  Blinded  by  the  flying  spray,  bail- 
ing for  very  life  to  free  the  boat  from  the  water 
with  which  she  was  nearly  full,  it  was  some  minutes 
before  I  was  able  to  decide  whether  we  were  unin- 
jured or  not.  Then  I  saw,  at  a  little  distance,  the 
whale  lying  quietly.  As  I  looked  he  spouted. 
" Starn  all!"  again  cried  our  chief,  and  we  retreated 
to  a  considerable  distance.  The  old  warrior's 
practised  eye  had  detected  the  coming  climax  of 
our  efforts,  the  dying  " flurry"  of  the  great  mam- 
mal. Turning  upon  his  side,  he  began  to  move  in 
a  circular  direction,  slowly  at  first,  then  faster  and 
faster,  until  he  was  rushing  around  at  tremendous 
speed,  his  great  head  raised  quite  out  of  the  water 
at  times,  clashing  his  enormous  jaws.  The  utmost 
caution  and  rapidity  of  manipulation  of  the  boat 


80  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

was  necessary  to  avoid  his  maddened  rush,  but 
this  gigantic  energy  was  short-lived.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  subsided  slowly,  his  mighty  body  re- 
clined on  one  side.  Hardly  had  the  flurry  ceased, 
when  we  hauled  up  alongside  of  our  hard-won 
prize,  in  order  to  secure  a  line  to  him  in  a 
better  manner  than  at  present  for  hauling  him  to 
the  ship. 

The  ship  was  some  three  or  four  miles  off  to  lee- 
ward, so  we  reckoned  she  would  take  at  least  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  work  up  to  us.  Meanwhile,  our  part 
of  the  performance  being  over,  and  well  over,  we 
thoroughly  enjoyed  ourselves,  lazily  rocking  on 
the  gentle  swell  by  the  side  of  a  catch  worth  at 
least  £  800. 

While  thus  ruminating,  the  mate  and  Louis  be- 
gan a  desultory  conversation  concerning  what  they 
termed  "ambergrease." 

By  some  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  product  of  a 
diseased  condition  of  the  creature ;  others  consider 
that  it  is  merely  the  excreta,  which,  normally  fluid, 
has  by  some  means  become  concreted.  It  is  nearly 
always  found  with  cuttle-fish  beaks  imbedded  in  its 
substance,  showing  that  these  indigestible  portions 
of  the  sperm  whale's  food  have  in  some  manner 
become  mixed  with  it  during  its  formation  in  the 
bowel.  Chemists  have  analyzed  it  with  scanty 
results.     Its  great  value  is  due  to  its  property  of 


THE    WHALE  81 

intensifying  perfumes,  although,  strange  to  say,  it 
has  little  or  no  odor  of  its  own,  a  faint  trace  of  musk 
being  perhaps  detectable  in  some  cases. 

The  ship  now  neared  us  fast.  Arriving  alongside, 
the  line  was  handed  on  board,  and  in  a  short  time 
the  prize  was  hauled  to  the  gangway.  He  was 
indeed  a  fine  catch,  being  at  least  seventy  feet 
long,  and  in  splendid  condition.  Verily  those  offi- 
cers toiled  like  Titans  to  get  that  tremendous  head 
off,  even  the  skipper  taking  a  hand.  All  that 
night  we  worked  incessantly,  ready  to  drop  with 
fatigue.  The  "junk"  was  hooked  on  to  both  cut- 
ting tackles,  and  the  windlass  manned  by  everybody 
who  could  get  hold.  Slowly  the  enormous  mass 
rose,  canting  the  ship  heavily  as  it  came,  while 
every  stick  and  rope  aloft  complained  of  the  great 
strain  upon  them. 

It  was  hauled  from  the  gangway  by  tackles,  and 
securely  lashed  to  the  rail  running  round  beneath 
the  top  of  the  bulwarks  for  that  purpose.  Then 
there  was  another  spell,  while  the  "case"  was 
se'parated  from  the  skull.  This  was  too  large  to 
get  on  board,  so  it  was  lifted  halfway  out  of  water 
by  the  tackles,  one  hooked  on  each  side ;  then  they 
were  made  fast,  and  a  spar  rigged  across  them  at  a 
good  height  above  the  top  of  the  case.  A  small 
block  was  lashed  to  this  spar,  through  which  a 
line  was  rove.     A  long,  narrow  bucket  was  attached 

G 


82  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

to  one  end  of  this  rope ;  the  other  end  on  deck  was 
attended  by  two  men.  One  unfortunate  beggar 
was  perched  aloft  on  the  above-mentioned  spar. 
He  was  provided  with  a  pole,  with  which  he  pushed 
the  bucket  down  through  a  hole  cut  in  the  upper 
end  of  the  "case,"  whence  it  was  drawn  out  by  the 
chaps  on  deck  full  of  spermaceti.  It  was  a  weary, 
unsatisfactory  process,  wasting  a  great  deal  of  the 
substance  being  baled  out ;  but  no  other  was  appar- 
ently possible.  As  the  stuff  was  gained,  it  was 
poured  into  large  tanks  in  the  blubber-room,  the 
quantity  being  too  great  to  be  held  by  the  try-pots 
at  once.  Twenty-five  barrels  of  this  clear,  wax- 
like substance  were  baled  from  that  case ;  and  when 
at  last  it  was  lowered  a  little,  and  cut  away  from 
its  supports,  it  was  impossible  to  help  thinking  that 
much  was  still  remaining  within  which  we,  with 
such  rude  means,  were  unable  to  save.  Then  came 
the  task  of  cutting  up  the  junk.  Layer  after  layer, 
eight  to  ten  inches  thick,  was  sliced  off,  cut  into 
suitable  pieces,  and  passed  into  the  tanks.  So 
full  was  the  latter  of  spermaceti  that  one  could 
take  a  piece  as  large  as  one's  head  in  the  hands, 
and  squeeze  it  like  a  sponge,  expressing  the  sper- 
maceti in  showers,  until  nothing  remained  but  a 
tiny  ball  of  fibre.  All  this  soft,  pulpy  mass  was 
held  together  by  walls  of  exceedingly  tough,  gristly 
integument,  "  white  horse,"  which  was  as  difficult 


THE    WHALE 


83 


to  cut  as  gutta-percha,   and,  but  for  the  peculiar 
texture,  not  at  all  unlike  it. 

The  lower  jaw  of  this  whale  measured  exactly 
nineteen  feet  in  length  from  the  opening  of  the 
mouth,  or,  say,  the  last  of  the  teeth,  to  the  point, 
and  carried  twenty-eight  teeth  on  each  side.  For 
the  time,  it  was  hauled  aft  out  of  the  way,  and  se- 
cured to  the  lash-rail.  For  a  whole  week  our  labors 
continued,  and  when  they  were  over  we  had  stowed 
below  a  hundred  and  forty-six  barrels  of  mingled 
oil  and  spermaceti,  or  fourteen  and  a  half  tons. 

Taken  from  The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot,  by  Frank  T. 
Bullen,  published  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


5sSfc»«=!?^S86»ifc««- 


GLASS-BLOWERS 

From  Marietta 

BY 

FRANCIS  MARION  CRAWFORD 

Marietta  was  the  daughter  and  companion  of  the 
most  noted  glass-blower  in  Venice,  and  was  his 
assistant  in  his  secret  experiments  in  making  the 
famous  "blood-red"  glass.  At  a  time  when  her 
father  was  away  and  his  trusted  man  was  seriously 
burned,  she  managed  the  furnaces,  and  directed  the 
glass  blowing.  The  best  part  of  the  story  is  that 
it  is  true,  though  it  all  happened  over  400  years  ago. 

Francis  Marion  Crawford,  who  wrote  Marietta, 
was  a  prince  among  story  tellers.  He  was  born  in 
Italy;  educated  in  New  Hampshire,  England, 
Germany,  Italy,  and  India,  and  finished  at  Harvard. 
His  home  was  in  Sorrento,  Bay  of  Naples.  He 
says  of  this  story,  "  I  wrote  it  while  enjoying  the  full 
illusion  of  the  actual  time  and  events." 

For  adults. 


GLASS-BLOWERS,   IN   THE   YEAR   1470 

Very  little  was  known  about  George,  the  Dal- 
matian, and  the  servants  in  the  house  of  Angelo 
Beroviero,  as  well  as  the  workmen  of  the  latter's 
glass  furnace,  called  him  Zorzi,  distrusted  him, 
suggested  that  he  was  probably  a  heretic,  and 
did  not  hide  their  suspicion  that  he  was  in  love 
with  the  master's  only  daughter,  Marietta.  All 
these  matters  were  against  him,  and  people  won- 
dered why  Angelo  kept  the  waif  in  his  service, 
since  he  could  have  engaged  any  one  out  of  a  hun- 
dred young  fellows  of  Murano,  all  belonging  to  the 
almost  noble  caste  of  the  glass-workers,  all  good 
Christians,  all  trustworthy,  and  all  ready  to  prom- 
ise that  the  lovely  Marietta  should  never  make 
the  slightest  impression  upon  their  respectfully 
petrified  hearts.  But  Angelo  had  not  been  accus- 
tomed to  consider  what  his  neighbours  might  think 
of  him  or  his  doings,  and  most  of  his  neighbors 
and  friends  abstained  with  singular  unanimity 
from  thrusting  their  opinions  upon  him.  For  this, 
there  were  three  reasons :  he  was  very  rich,  he  was 
the  greatest  living  artist  in  working  glass,  and  he 
was  of  a  choleric  temper.     He  confessed  the  latter 

87 


88  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

fault  with  great  humility  to  the  curate  of  San  Piero 
each  year  in  Lent,  but  he  would  never  admit  it 
to  any  one  else.  Indeed,  if  any  of  his  family  ever 
suggested  that  he  was  somewhat  hasty,  he  flew 
into  such  an  ungovernable  rage  in  proving  the 
contrary  that  it  was  scarcely  wise  to  stay  in  the 
house  while  the  fit  lasted.  As  for  her  brothers, 
though  the  elder  was  nearly  forty  years  old,  it  was 
not  long  since  his  father  had  given  him  a  box  on 
the  ears  which  made  him  see  simultaneously  all  the 
colours  of  all  the  glasses  ever  made  in  Murano  be- 
fore or  since.  It  is  true  that  Giovanni  had  timidly 
asked  to  be  told  one  of  the  secrets  for  making  fine 
red  glass  which  old  Angelo  had  learned  long  ago  from 
old  Paolo  Godi  of  Pergola,  the  famous  chemist ; 
and  these  secrets  were  all  carefully  written  out  in 
the  elaborate  character  of  the  late  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, and  Angelo  kept  the  manuscript  in  an  iron 
box,  under  his  own  bed,  and  wore  the  key  on  a 
small  silver  chain  at  his  neck. 

Moreover,  because  he  needed  a  man  to  help  him, 
and  because  he  was  afraid  lest  one  of  his  own  caste 
should  fall  in  love  with  Marietta,  he  took  Zorzi, 
the  Dalmatian  waif,  into  his  service ;  and  the  three 
were  often  together  all  day  in  the  room  where  Angelo 
had  set  up  a  little  furnace  for  making  experiments. 
In  the  year  1470  it  was  not  lawful  in  Murano  to 
teach  any  foreign  person  the  art  of  glass-making ; 


GLASS-BLOWERS  89 

for  the  glass-blowers  were  a  sort  of  nobility,  and 
nearly  a  hundred  years  had  passed  since  the  Council 
had  declared  that  the  patricians  of  Venice  might 
marry  the  daughters  of  glass-workers  without 
affecting  their  own  rank  or  that  of  their  children. 
But  old  Benoviero  declared  that  he  was  not  teach- 
ing Zorzi  anything,  that  the  young  fellow  was  his 
servant  and  not  his  apprentice,  and  did  nothing 
but  keep  up  the  fire  in  the  furnace,  and  fetch  and 
carry,  grind  materials,  and  sweep  the  floor.  It 
was  quite  true  that  Zorzi  did  all  these  things,  and 
he  did  them  with  a  silent  regularity  that  made  him 
indispensable  to  his  master,  who  scarcely  noticed 
the  growing  skill  with  which  the  young  man  helped 
him  at  every  turn,  till  he  could  be  entrusted  to 
perform  the  most  delicate  operations  in  glass- 
working  without  any  especial  instructions.  In- 
tent upon  artistic  matters,  the  old  man  was  hardly 
aware,  either,  that  Marietta  had  learned  much 
of  his  art ;  or  if  he  realized  the  fact  he  felt  a  sort  of 
jealous  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  she  liked  to 
be  shut  up  with  him  for  hours  at  a  time,  quite  out 
of  sight  of  the  world  and  altogether  out  of  harm's 
way.  He  fancied  that  she  grew  more  like  him  from 
day  to  day,  and  he  flattered  himself  that  he  under- 
stood her.  She  and  Zorzi  were  the  only  beings  in 
his  world  who  never  irritated  him,  now  that  he  had 
them  always  under  his  eye  and  command. 


90  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

The  glass-house  was  guarded  from  outsiders  as 
carefully  as  a  nunnery,  and  somewhat  resembled 
a  convent  in  having  no  windows  so  situated  that 
curious  persons  might  see  from  without  what  went 
on  inside.  The  place  was  entered  by  a  low  door 
from  the  narrow  paved  path  that  ran  along  the 
canal.  In  a  little  vestibule,  ill-lighted  by  one  small 
grated  window,  sat  the  porter,  an  uncouth  old 
man  who  rarely  answered  questions,  and  never 
opened  the  door  until  he  had  assured  himself  by  a 
deliberate  inspection  through  the  grating  that  the 
person  who  knocked  had  a  right  to  come  in.  Mari- 
etta _ remembered  him  in  his  den  when  she  had 
been  a  little  child,  and  she  vaguely  supposed  that 
he  had  always  been  there.  He  had  been  old  then, 
he  was  not  visibly  older  now,  he  would  probably 
never  die  of  old  age,  and  if  any  mortal  ill  should 
carry  him  off,  he  would  surely  be  replaced  by  some 
one  exactly  like  him,  who  would  sleep  in  the  same 
box  bed,  sit  all  day  in  the  same  black  chair,  and 
eat  bread,  shellfish  and  garlic  off  the  same  worm- 
eaten  table.  There  was  no  other  entrance  to  the 
glass-house,  and  there  could  be  no  other  porter  to 
guard  it. 

Beyond  the  vestibule  a  dark  corridor  led  to  a 
small  garden  that  formed  the  court  of  the  building, 
and  on  one  side  of  which  were  the  large  windows 
that  lighted  the  main  furnace  room,  while  the  other 


GLASS-BLOWERS  91 

side  contained  the  laboratory  of  the  master.  But 
the  main  furnace  was  entered  from  the  corridor, 
so  that  the  workmen  never  passed  through  the 
garden. 

Here  Marietta  often  sat  in  the  shade,  when  the 
laboratory  was  too  close  and  hot,  and  when  the  time 
was  at  hand  during  which  even  the  men  would  not 
be  able  to  work  on  account  of  the  heat,  and  the  fur- 
nace would  be  put  out  and  repaired,  and  every  one 
would  be  set  to  making  the  delicate  clay  pots  in 
which  the  glass  was  to  be  melted. 

Zorzi  had  plenty  of  time  for  reflection,  for  his 
master  became  absorbed  in  his  work,  weighing  out 
portions  of  different  ingredients  and  slowly  mixing 
each  with  the  coloured  earths  and  chemicals  that 
were  already  in  the  wooden  trough.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  tend  the  fire,  and  Zorzi  pushed 
in  the  pieces  of  Istrian  beech  wood  with  his  indus- 
trious regularity.  It  was  the  only  part  of  his  work 
that  he  hated,  and  when  he  was  obliged  to  do  noth- 
ing else,  he  usually  sought  consolation  in  dreaming 
of  a  time  when  he  himself  should  be  a  master  glass- 
blower  and  artist  whom  it  would  be  almost  an 
honour  for  a  young  man  to  serve,  even  in  such  a 
humble  way.  He  did  not  know  how  that  was  to 
happen,  since  there  were  strict  laws  against  teaching 
the  art  to  foreigners,  and  also  against  allowing  any 
foreign  person  to  establish  a  furnace  at  Murano ; 


92  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

and  the  glass-works  had  long  been  altogether  ban- 
ished from  Venice  on  account  of  the  danger  of  fire, 
at  a  time  when  two-thirds  of  the  houses  were  of 
wood.  But  meanwhile  Zorzi  had  learned  the  art, 
in  spite  of  the  law,  and  he  hoped  in  time  to  overcome 
the  other  obstacles  that  opposed  him. 

Marietta  looked  out  over  her  flowers.  The  door 
of  the  glass-house  was  open  and  the  burly  porter 
was  sweeping ;  she  could  hear  the  cypress  broom 
on  the  flagstones  inside,  and  presently  it  appeared 
in  sight  while  the  porter  was  still  invisible,  and  it 
whisked  out  a  mixture  of  black  dust  and  bread 
crumbs  and  bits  of  green  salad  leaves,  and  the  old 
man  came  out  and  swept  everything  across  the 
footway  into  the  canal.  As  he  turned  to  go  back, 
the  workmen  came  trooping  across  the  bridge 
to  the  furnaces  —  pale  men  with  intent  faces, 
very  different  from  ordinary  working  people.  For 
each  called  himself  an  artist,  and  was  one ;  and 
each  knew  that  so  far  as  the  law  was  concerned  the 
proudest  noble  in  Venice  could  marry  his  daughter 
without  the  least  derogation  from  patrician  dignity. 
The  workmen  differed  from  her  own  father  not  in 
station,  but  only  in  the  degree  of  their  prosperity. 

Yet  dexterous  as  they  were,  there  was  not  one 
that  had  Zorzi's  skill,  there  was  not  one  that  could 
compare  with  him  as  an  artist,  as  a  workman,  as  a 
man.     No    Indian    caste,    no    ancient   nobility,    no 


GLASS-BLOWERS  93 

mystic  priesthood  ever  set  up  a  barrier  so  impas- 
sable between  itself  and  the  outer  world  as  that 
which  defended  the  glass-blowers  of  Murano  for 
centuries  against  all  who  wished  to  be  initiated. 
Even  the  boys  who  fed  fires  all  night  were  of  the 
calling,  and  by  and  by  would  become  workmen, v 
and  perhaps  masters,  legally  almost  the  equals  of 
the  splendid  nobles  who  sat  in  the  Grand  Council 
over  there  in  Venice. 

Zorzi's  very  existence  was  an  anomaly.  He  had 
no  social  right  to  be  what  he  was,  and  he  knew'  it 
when  he  called  himself  a  servant,  for  the  cruel 
law  would  not  allow  him  to  be  anything  else  so 
long  as  he  helped  Angelo  Beroviero. 

Suddenly,  while  Marietta  watched  the  men,  Zorzi 
was  there  among  them.  No  one  greeted  him,  even 
by  a  nod.  Marietta  knew  that  they  hated  him 
because  he  was  in  her  father's  confidence ;  and 
somehow,  instead  of  pitying  him,  she  was  glad. 

It  seemed  natural  that  he  should  not  be  one  of 
them,  that  he  should  pass  them  in  quiet  indifference 
and  that  they  should  feel  for  him  the  instinctive 
dislike  which  most  inferiors'  feel  for  those  above 
them.  Doubtless,  they  looked  down  upon  him, 
or  told  themselves  that  they  did;  but  in  their 
hearts  they  knew  that  a  man  with  such  a  face  was 
born  to  be  their  teacher  and  their  master,  and  the 
girl  was  proud  of  him. 


94  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Presently  Beroviero  settled  to  his  work  with 
his  usual  concentration.  For  many  months  he 
had  been  experimenting  in  the  making  of  fine  red 
glass  of  a  certain  tone,  of  which  he  had  brought 
home  a  small  fragment  from  one  of  his  journeys. 
Hitherto  he  had  failed  in  every  attempt.  He  had 
tried  one  mixture  after  another,  but  not  one  of 
them  had  that  marvellous  light  in  it,  like  sunshine 
striking  through  bright  blood,  which  he  was  try- 
ing to  obtain.  It  was  nearly  three  weeks  since  his 
small  furnace  had  been  allowed  to  go  out,  and  by 
this  time  he  alone  knew  what  the  glowing  pots 
contained,  for  he  wrote  down  very  carefully  what  he 
did  and  in  characters  which  he  believed  no  one 
could  understand  but  himself. 

As  usual  every  morning,  he  proceeded  to  make 
trial  of  the  materials  fused  in  the  night.  The 
furnace,  though  not  large,  held  three  crucibles, 
before  each  of  which  was  the  opening,  still  called 
by  the  Italian  name  'bocca/  through  which  the 
materials  are  put  into  the  pots  to  melt  into  glass, 
and  by  which  the  melted  glass  is  taken  out  on  the 
end  of  the  blow-pipe,  or  in  a  copper  ladle,  when  it  is 
to  be  tested  by  casting  it.  The  furnace  was  arched 
from  end  to  end,  and  about  the  height  of  a  tall 
man ;  the  working  end  was  like  a  round  oven  with 
three  glowing  openings ;  the  straight  part,  some 
twenty    feet    long,    contained    the    annealing    oven 


GLASS-BLOWERS  95 

through  which  the  finished  pieces  were  made  to 
move  slowly,  on  iron  lier-pans,  during  many  hours, 
till  the  glass  had  been  passed  from  extreme  heat 
almost  to  the  temperature  of  the  air.  The  most 
delicate  vessels  ever  produced  in  Murano  have  all 
been  made  in  single  furnaces,  the  materials  being 
melted,  converted  into  glass  and  finally  annealed, 
by  one  fire.  At  least  one  old  furnace  is  standing 
and  still  in  use,  which  has  existed  for  centuries,  and 
those  made  nowadays  are  substantially  like  it  in 
every  important  respect. 

Zorzi  stood  holding  a  long-handled  copper  ladle, 
ready  to  take  out  a  specimen  of  the  glass  containing 
the  ingredients  most  lately  added.  A  few  steps 
from  the  furnace  a  thick  and  smooth  plate  of  iron 
was  placed  on  a  heavy  wooden  table,  and  upon  this 
the  liquid  glass  was  to  be  poured  out  to  cool. 

"It  must  be  time,"  said  Beroviero,  "unless  the 
boys  forgot  to  turn  the  sand-glass  at  one  of  the 
watches.  The  hour  is  all  but  run  out,  and  it  must 
be  the  twelfth  since  I  put  in  the  materials." 

"I  turned  it  myself,  an  hour  after  midnight," 
said  Zorzi,  "and  also  the  next  time,  when  it  was 
dawn.  It  runs  three  hours.  Judging  by  the  time 
of  sunrise  it  is  running  right." 

"Then  make  the  trial." 

Beroviero  stood  opposite  Zorzi,  his  face  pale  with 
the  heat  and  excitement,  his  fiery  eyes  reflecting  the 


96  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

fierce  light  from  the  'bocca'  as  he  bent  down  to 
watch  the  copper  ladle  go  in.  Zorzi  had  wrapped 
a  cloth  round  his  right  hand,  against  the  heat,  and 
he  thrust  the  great  spoon  through  the  round  orifice. 
Though  it  was  the  hundredth  time  of  testing,  the 
old  man  watched  his  movements  with  intensest 
interest. 

"  Quickly,  quickly  ! "  he  cried,  quite  unconscious 
that  he  was  speaking. 

There  was  no  need  of  hurrying  Zorzi.  In  two 
steps  he  had  reached  the  table,  and  the  white  hot 
stuff  spread  out  over  the  iron  plate,  instantly  turn- 
ing to  a  greenish  yellow,  then  to  a  pale  rose-colour, 
then  to  a  deep  and  glowing  red,  as  it  felt  the  cool 
metal.  The  two  men  stood  watching  it  closely, 
for  it  was  thin  and  would  soon  cool.  Zorzi  was  too 
wise  to  say  anything.  Beroviero's  look  of  interest 
gradually  turned  into  an  expression  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

" Another  failure,"  he  said,  with  a  resignation 
which  no  one  would  have  expected  in  such  a  man. 

His  practised  eyes  had  guessed  the  exact  hue  of 
the  glass,  while  it  lay  on  the  iron,  half  cooled  and 
far  too  hot  to  touch.  Zorzi  took  a  short  rod  and 
pushed  the  round  sheet  till  a  part  of  it  was  over  the 
edge  of  the  table. 

"It  is  the  best  we  have  had  yet,"  he  observed, 
looking  at  it. 


GLASS-BLOWERS  97 

"Is  it?"  asked  Beroviero  with  little  interest, 
and  without  giving  the  glass  another  glance.  "It 
is  not  what  I  am  trying  to  get.  It  is  the  colour  of 
wine,  not  of  blood.  Make  something,  Zorzi,  while 
I  write  down  the  result  of  the  experiment." 

He  took  his  pen  and  the  sheet  of  rough  paper  on 
which  he  had  already  noted  the  proportions  of  the 
materials,  and  he  began  to  write,  sitting  at  the  large 
table  before  the  open  window.  Zorzi  took  the  long 
iron  blow-pipe,  cleaned  it  with  a  cloth  and  pushed 
the  end  through  the  orifice  from  which  he  had  taken 
the  specimen.  He  drew  it  back  with  a  little  lump 
of  melted  glass  sticking  to  it. 

Holding  the  blow-pipe  to  his  lips,  he  blew  a  little, 
and  the  lump  swelled,  and  he  swung  the  pipe  sharply 
in  a  circle,  so  that  the  glass  lengthened  to  the  shape 
of  a  pear,  and  he  blew  again  and  it  grew.  At  the 
'bocca'  of  the  furnace  he  heated  it,  for  it  was 
cooling  quickly ;  and  he  had  his  iron  pontil  ready, 
as  there  was  no  one  to  help  him,  and  he  easily 
performed  the  feat  of  taking  a  little  hot  glass  on  it 
from  the  pot  and  attaching  it  to  the  further  end  of 
the  fast-cooling  pear.  If  Beroviero  had  been  watch- 
ing him  he  would  have  been  astonished  at  the  skill 
with  which  the  young  man  accomplished  what  it 
requires  two  persons  to  do ;  but  Zorzi  had  tricks  of 
his  own,  and  the  pontil  supported  itself  on  a  board 
while  he  cracked  the  pear  from  the  blow-pipe  with 


98  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

a  wet  iron,  as  well  as  if  a  boy  had  held  it  in  place 
for  him ;  and  then  heating  and  reheating  the  piece, 
he  fashioned  it  and  cut  it  with  tongs  and  shears, 
rolling  the  pontil  on  the  flat  arms  of  his  stool  with 
his  left  hand,  and  modelling  the  glass  with  his 
right,  till  at  last  he  let  it  cool  to  its  natural  colour, 
holding  it  straight  downward,  and  then  swinging 
it  slowly,  so  that  it  should  fan  itself  in  the  air.  It 
was  a  graceful  calix  now,  of  a  deep  wine  red,  clear 
and  transparent  as  claret. 

Marietta  left  the  window  and  entered  the  room. 

"Am  I  disturbing  you?"  she  asked  gently,  as 
she  stood  by  her  father. 

"  No.  I  have  finished  writing."  He  laid  down 
his  pen. 

"  Another  failure?" 

"  Yes." 

When  she  was  gone  Beroviero  shut  the  window 
carefully,  and  though  the  round  bull's-eye  panes 
let  in  the  light  plentifully,  they  effectually  pre- 
vented any  one  from  seeing  into  the  room.  The 
door  was  already  closed. 

"You  have  always  been  faithful  to  me,"  said 
the  old  man,  laying  his  hand  gently  on  Zorzi's 
shoulder.  "I  know  what  that  means  in  this 
world." 

"You  have  always  been  very  good  to  me,"  re- 
plied Zorzi  gratefully. 


GLASS-BLOWERS  99 

"I  am  going  to  trust  you  much  more  than  hither- 
to/' Beroviero  continued.  "My  sons  are  grown 
men,  independent  of  me,  but  willing  to  get  from  me 
all  they  can.  If  they  were  true  artists,  if  I  could 
trust  their  taste,  they  should  have  had  my  secrets 
long  ago.  But  they  are  mere  money-makers,  and 
it  is  better  that  they  should  enrich  themselves  with 
the  tasteless  rubbish  they  make  in  their  furnaces, 
than  degrade  our  art  by  cheapening  what  should 
be  rare  and  costly.     Am  I  right?" 

"Indeed  you  are!"  Zorzi  now  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
real  conviction. 

"I  am  obliged  to  make  a  journey,"  continued 
Beroviero.  "I  shall  entrust  to  you  the  manuscript 
secrets  I  possess.  They  are  in  a  sealed  package 
so  that  you  cannot  read  them,  but  they  will  be  in 
your  care.  If  I  leave  them  with  any  one  else,  my 
sons  will  try  to  get  possession  of  them  while  I  am 
away.  During  my  last  journey  I  carried  them 
with  me,  but  I  am  growing  old,  life  is  uncertain, 
especially  when  a  man  is  travelling,  and  I  would 
rather  leave  the  packet  with  you.  It  will  be 
safer." 

"It  shall  be  altogether  safe,"  said  Zorzi.  "No 
one  shall  guess  that  I  have  it." 

"No  one  must  know.  I  would  take  you  with  me 
on  this  journey,  but  I  wish  you  to  go  on  with  the 
experiments  I  have  been  making.     We  shall  save 


100  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

time,  if  you  try  some  of  the  mixtures  while  I 
am  away.  When  it  is  too  hot,  let  the  furnace 
go  out." 

Zorzi  worked  hard  in  the  laboratory,  minutely 
carrying  out  the  instructions  he  had  received,  but 
reasoning  upon  them  with  a  freshness  and  keen- 
ness of  thought  of  which  his  master  was  no  longer 
capable.  When  he  had  made  the  trials  and  had 
added  the  new  ingredients  for  the  future  ones,  he 
began  to  think  out  methods  of  his  own  which  had 
suggested  themselves  to  him  of  late,  but  which  he 
had  never  been  able  to  try.  But  though  he  had  the 
furnace  to  himself,  to  use  as  long  as  he  could  en- 
dure the  heat  of  the  advancing  summer,  he  was  face 
to  face  with  a  difficulty  that  seemed  insuperable. 

The  furnace  had  but  three  crucibles,  each  of 
which  contained  one  of  the  mixtures  by  means  of 
which  he  and  Beroviero  were  trying  to  produce  the 
famous  red  glass.  In  order  to  begin  to  make  glass 
in  his  own  way,  it  was  necessary  that  one  of  the 
three  should  be  emptied,  but  unless  he  disobeyed 
his  orders  this  was  out  of  the  question.  In  his 
train  of  thought  and  longing  to  try  what  he  felt 
sure  must  succeed,  he  had  forgotten  the  obstacle. 
The  check  brought  him  back  to  himself,  and  he 
walked  disconsolately  up  and  down  the  long  room 
by  the  side  of  the  furnace.  The  furious  desire  to 
create,  which  is  the  strength  as  well  as  the  essence 


GLASS-BLOWERS  101 

of  genius,  surged  up  and  dashed  itself  to  futile 
spray  upon  the  face  of  the  solid  rock. 

He  stood  still  before  the  hanging  shelves  on  which 
he  had' placed  the  objects  he  had  occasionally  made, 
and  which  his  master  allowed  him  to  keep  there  — 
light,  air-thin  vessels  of  graceful  shapes  :  an  ampulla 
of  exquisite  outline  with  a  long  curved  spout  that 
bent  upwards  and  then  outwards  and  over  like  the 
stalk  of  a  lily  of  the  valley ;  a  large  drinking-glass 
set  on  a  stem  so  slender  that  one  would  doubt  its 
strength  to  carry  the  weight  of  a  full  measure,  yet 
so  strong  that  the  cup  might  have  been  filled  with 
lead  without  breaking  it ;  a  broad  dish  that  was 
nothing  but  a  shadow  against  the  light,  but  in  the 
shadow  was  a  fair  design  of  flowers,  drawn  free 
with  a  diamond  point ;  there  were  dozens  of  these 
things  on  the  shelves.  He  looked  at  the  things, 
wishing  that  he  had  never  made  them,  that  he  had 
never  learned  the  art  he  was  forbidden  by  law  to 
practise. 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Giovanni  entered. 
Zorzi  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  silence.  He  was 
surprised,  but  he  supposed  that  the  master's  son 
had  a  right  to  come  if  he  chose,  though  he  never 
showed  himself  in  the  glass-house  when  his  father 
was  in  Murano. 

"Are  you  alone  here?"  asked  Giovanni,  looking 
about  him.     "  Do  none  of  the  workmen  come  here  ?" 


102  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

"The  master  has  left  me  in  charge  of  his  work/' 
answered  Zorzi.     "I  need  no  help." 

Giovanni  seated  himself  in  his  father's  chair  and 
looked  at  the  table  before  the  window. 

"I  do  not  understand  how  a  man  who  is  not  a 
glass-blower  can  know  enough  to  be  left  alone  in 
charge  of  a  furnace/'  said  Giovanni,  with  a  harsh 
little  laugh. 

Zorzi  was  silent.  He  did  not  think  *it  necessary 
to  tell  how  much  he  knew. 

"What  are  you  making?"  he  asked  presently. 

"A  certain  kind  of  glass/'  Zorzi  answered. 

"A  new  colour?" 

"A  certain  colour.     That  is  all  I  can  tell  you." 

"You  can  tell  me  what  colour  it  is/'  said  Gio- 
vanni. "Why  are  you  so  secret?  Even  if  my 
father  had  ordered  you  to  be  silent  with  me  about 
his  work,  which  I  do  not  believe,  you  would  not  be 
betraying  anything  by  telling  me  that.  What 
colour  is  he  trying  to  make?" 

"I  am  to  say  nothing  about  it,  not  even  to  you. 
I  obey  my  orders." 

Giovanni  was  a  glass-maker  himself.  He  rose 
with  an  air  of  annoyance  and  crossed  the  labora- 
tory to  the  jar  in  which  the  broken  glass  was  kept, 
took  out  a  piece  and  held  it  against  the  light.  Zorzi 
had  made  a  movement  as  if  to  hinder  him,  but  he 
realized  at  once  that  he  could  not  lay  hands  on  his 


GLASS-BLOWERS  103 

master's  son.  Giovanni  laughed  contemptuously 
and  threw  the  fragment  back  into  the  jar. 

"Is  that  all?  I  can  do  better  than  that  my- 
self!" he  said,  and  he  sat  down  again  in  the  big 
chair. 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  shelves  upon  which  Zorzi's 
specimens  of  work  were  arranged.  He  looked  at 
them  with  interest,  at  once  understanding  their 
commercial  value. 

"My  father  can  make  good  things  when  he  is 
not  wasting  time  over  discoveries/'  he  remarked, 
and  rising  again  he  went  nearer  and  began  to  ex- 
amine the  little  objects. 

Zorzi  said  nothing,  and  after  looking  at  them  a 
long  time  Giovanni  turned  away  and  stood  before 
the  furnace.  The  copper  ladle  with  which  the 
specimens  were  taken  from  the  pots  lay  on  the  brick 
ledge  near  one  of  the  'boccas.'  Giovanni  took  it, 
looked  round  to  see  where  the  iron  plate  for  testing 
was  placed,  and  thrust  the  ladle  into  the  aperture, 
holding  it  lightly  lest  the  heat  should  hurt  his  hand. 

"You  shall  not  do  that!"  cried  Zorzi,  who  was 
already  beside  him. 

Before  Giovanni  knew  what  was  happening 
Zorzi  had  struck  the  ladle  from  his  hand,  and  it 
disappeared  through  the  'bocca'  into  the  white- 
hot  glass  within. 


104  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

The  porter  unbarred  the  door  and  looked  out. 
Everything  was  quiet,  and  the  shutters  of  the  house 
were  drawn  together,  but  not  quite  closed.  The 
flowers  outside  Marietta's  window  waved  in  the 
light  breeze. 

"Nella!"  cried  Pasquale,  just  as  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  call  the  maid  when  Marietta  wanted 
her. 

But  no  one  looked  out  of  the  house.  Pasquale 
called  again,  somewhat  louder.  The  shutters  of 
Marietta's  window  were  slowly  opened  inward  and 
Marietta  herself  appeared,  all  in  white  and  pale, 
looking  over  the  flowers. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Why  do  you  want 
Nella?" 

"Your  pardon,  lady,"  answered  Pasquale.  "I 
did  not  mean  to  disturb  you.  There  has  been  a 
little  accident  here,  saving  your  grace." 

"What  has  happened?     Tell  me  quickly  !" 

"A  man  has  had  his  foot  badly  burned  —  it 
must  be  dressed  at  once." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Zorzi." 

"Wait  there  a  minute,"  she  said,  and  disappeared 
quickly. 

The  porter  heard  her  calling  Nella  from  an  inner 
room,  and  then  he  heard  Nella's  voice  indistinctly. 
He  waited  before  the  open  door. 


GLASS-BLOWERS  105 

Nella  was  a  born  chatterer,  but  she  had  her  good 
qualities,  and  in  an  emergency  she  was  silent  and 
skilful. 

" Leave  it  to  me/'  she  said.  "He  will  need  no 
surgeon." 

In  her  room  she  had  a  small  store  of  simple 
remedies,  sweet  oil,  a  pot  of  balsam,  old  linen 
carefully  rolled  up  in  little  bundles,  a  precious 
ointment  made  from  the  fat  of  vipers,  which  was  a 
marvellous  cure  for  rheumatism  in  the  joints,  some 
syrup  of  poppies  in  a  stumpy  phial,  a  box  of  pow- 
dered iris  root,  and  another  of  saffron.  She  took 
the  sweet  oil,  the  balsam,  and  some  linen.  She 
also  took  a  small  pair  of  scissors  which  were  among 
her  most  precious  possessions.  She  threw  her 
large  black  kerchief  over  her  head  and  pinned  it 
together  under  her  chin. 

Marietta  was  waiting  by  the  door.  "Come,  we 
are  losing  time."  She  opened  the  door  and  went  out 
quickly. 

Pasquale  looked  at  Marietta,  but  said  nothing 
until  all  three  were  inside.  Then  he  took  hold 
of  Marietta's  mantle  at  her  elbow,  and  held  her 
back. 

"You  must  not  go  in,  lady,"  he  said.  "It  is 
an  ugly  wound  to  see." 

Marietta  pushed  him  aside  quietly,  and  led  the 
way.     Nella  followed  her  as  fast  as  she  could,  and 


106  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Pasquale  came  last.  He  knew  that  the  two  women 
would  need  help. 

It  was  a  hideous  wound. 

"It  will  heal  more  quickly  than  you  think/ '  said 
Nella  confidently.  "The  burning  has  cauterized 
it."     And  she  set  to  work  quickly  and  skilfully. 

"You  cannot  stay  here,"  Marietta  said,  turning 
to  Zorzi.     "You  cannot  lie  on  this  bench  all  day." 

"I  shall  soon  be  able  to  stand,"  answered  Zorzi 
confidently.     "I  am  much  better." 

"You  will  not  stand  on  that  foot  for  many  a 
day,"  said  Nella,  shaking  her  head. 

"Then  Pasquale  must  get  me  a  pair  of  crutches," 
replied  Zorzi.  "I  cannot  lie  on  my  back  because 
I  have  hurt  one  foot.  I  must  tend  the  furnace,  I 
must  go  on  with  my  work,  I  must  make  the  tests. 
Some  one  must  help  me  with  the  work." 

"There  is  no  one  but  me,"  answered  Marietta 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "There  is  no  one  else 
who  knows  enough  about  my  father's  work." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Zorzi. 

"Lady,"  said  Pasquale  at  last,  and  rather  timidly, 
"I  will  take  good  care  of  him.  I  will  get  him 
crutches  to-morrow.  I  will  come  in  the  daytime 
and  keep  the  fire  burning  for  him." 

Marietta  saw  that  she  could  not  stay  any  longer 
at  present,  and  she  went  once  more  to  Zorzi's  side. 

"Let  Pasquale  take  care  of  you  to-day,"  she  said. 


GLASS-BLOWERS  107 

"I  will  come  and  see  how  vou  are  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"I  thank  you/'  he  answered.  "I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart.  I  have  no  words  to  tell  you  how 
much." 

The  porter  kept  his  word,  and  took  good  care  of 

Zorzi. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  # 

From  the  narrow  line  into  which  the  back  door 
opened,  Marietta  emerged.  "Come,  Nella,"  tak- 
ing her  serving-woman  by  the  arm,  walking  quickly 
across  the  wooden  bridge  towards  the  glass-house, 
and  Nella  trotted  beside  her  mistress  like  a  lamb, 
led  by  a  string.  Marietta  tapped  upon  the  door  of 
the  glass-house.  It  opened  almost  immediately 
and  they  disappeared  within. 

Marietta  sent  Pasquale  on,  to  tell  Zorzi  that  she 
was  coming,  and  when  she  reached  the  laboratory 
he  was  sitting  in  the  master's  big  chair,  with  his 
foot  on  a  stool  before  him.  As  Marietta  entered, 
he  looked  up  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"You  seem  glad  to  see  us  after  all,"  she  said. 
"Yet  you  protested  that  I  should  not  come  to-day  !" 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  he  answered. 

"If  you  will  tell  me  which  crucible  to  try,"  said 
Marietta,  "I  will  make  the  tests  for  you.  Then  we 
can  move  the  table  to  your  side  and  you  can  pre- 
pare the  new  ingredients  according  to  the  writing." 


108  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Pasquale  had  left  them,  seeing  that  he  was  not 
wanted. 

"I  fear  it  is  of  little  use/'  answered  Zorzi,  de- 
spondently. "Of  course,  the  master  is  very  wise, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  he  has  added  so  much, 
from  time  to  time,  to  the  original  mixture,  and  so 
much  has  been  taken  away,  as  to  make  it  all  very 
uncertain." 

"I  daresay,"  assented  Marietta.  "For  some  time 
I  have  thought  so.  But  we  must  carry  out  his 
wishes  to  the  letter,  else  he  will  always  believe  that 
the  experiment  might  have  succeeded  if  he  had 
stayed  here." 

"Of  course,"  said  Zorzi.  "We  should  make  the 
tests  of  all  three  crucibles  to-day,  if  it  is  only  to 
make  more  room  for  the  things  that  are  to  be  put  in." 

"Where  is  the  copper  ladle?"  asked  Marietta. 
"I  do  not  see  it  in  its  place." 

"I  have  none  —  I  had  forgotten.  Your  brother 
came  yesterday,  and  wanted  to  try  the  glass  himself 
in  spite  of  me.  I  knocked  the  ladle  out  of  his  hand 
and  it  fell  through  into  the  crucible." 

"That  was  like  you,"  said  Marietta.  "I  am  glad 
you  did  it." 

"Heaven  knows  what  has  happened  to  the 
thing,"  Zorzi  answered.  "It  has  been  there  since 
yesterday  morning.  For  all  I  know,  it  may  have 
melted  by  this  time.     It  may  affect  the  glass,  too. " 


GLASS-BLOWERS  109 

"Where  can  I  get  another?"  asked  Marietta, 
anxious  to  begin. 

Zorzi  made  an  instinctive  motion  to  rise.  It  hurt 
him  badly  and  he  bit  his  lip. 

"I  forgot/'  he  said.  "Pasquale  can  get  another 
ladle  from  the  main  glass-house." 

"Go  and  call  Pasquale,  Nella,"  said  Marietta  at 
once.     "Ask  him  to  get  a  copper  ladle." 

Nella  brought  the  copper  ladle.  There  were 
always  several  in  the  glass-works  for  making  tests. 
Marietta  took  it  and  went  to  the  furnace,  while 
Nella  watched  her,  in  great  fear  lest  she  should 
burn  herself.  But  the  young  girl  was  in  no  danger, 
for  she  had  spent  half  her  life  in  the  laboratory  and 
the  garden  watching  her  father.  She  wrapped  the 
vet  cloth  round  her  hand  and  held  the  ladle  by  the 
end. 

"We  will  begin  with  the  one  on  the  right/'  she 
said,  thrusting  the  instrument  through  the  aper- 
ture. 

Bringing  it  out  with  some  glass  in  it,  she  supported 
it  with  both  hands  as  she  went  quickly  to  the  iron 
table,  and  she  instantly  poured  out  the  stuff  and 
began  to  watch  it. 

"It  is  just  what  you  had  the  other  day/'  she  said, 
as  the  glass  rapidly  cooled. 

Zorzi  was  seated  high  enough  to  look  over  the 
table. 


110  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

" Another  failure/'  he  said.  "It  is  always  the 
same.  We  have  scarcely  had  any  variation  in  the 
tint  in  the  last  week." 

"That  is  not  your  fault,"  answered  Marietta. 
"We  will  try  the  next." 

As  if  she  had  been  at  the  work  all  her  life, 
she  chilled  the  ladle  and  chipped  off  the  small  ad- 
hering bits  of  glass  from  it,  and  slipped  the  last 
test  from  the  table,  carrying  it  to  the  refuse  jar 
with  tongs.  Once  more  she  wrapped  the  damp 
cloth  round  her  hand  and  went  to  the  furnace. 
The  middle  crucible  was  to  be  tried  next.  Nella, 
looking  on  with  nervous  anxiety,  was  in  a  profuse 
perspiration. 

"I  believe  that  is  the  one  into  which  the  ladle 
fell,"  said  Zorzi.     "Yes,  I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

Marietta  took  the  specimen  and  poured  it  out, 
set  down  the  ladle  on  the  brick  work,  and  watched 
the  cooling  glass,  expecting  to  see  what  she  had 
often  seen  before.  But  her  face  changed,  in  a  look 
of  wonder  and  delight. 

"Zorzi!"  she  exclaimed.  "Look!  Look!  See 
what  a  colour !" 

"I  cannot  see  well,"  he  answered,  straining  his 
neck.  "Wait  a  minute!  We  have  got  it!  I 
believe  we  have  got  it.     Oh,  if  I  could  only  walk !" 

"Patience  —  you  shall  see  it.  It  is  almost  cool. 
It  is  quite  stiff  now." 


GLASS-BLOWERS  111 

She  took  the  little  flat  cake  up  with  the  tongs, 
very  carefully,  and  held  it  before  his  eyes.  The 
light  fell  through  it  from  the  window,  and  her  head 
was  close  to  his  as  they  both  looked  at  it  together. 

"I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  colour,"  said  Zorzi, 
his  face  flushed  with  excitement. 

"There  never  was  such  a  colour  before,"  an- 
swered Marietta.  "It  is  like  the  juice  of  a  ripe 
pomegranate  that  has  just  been  cut,  only  there  is 
more  light  in  it." 

"It  is  like  a  great  ruby  —  the  rubies  the  jewel- 
lers call  { pigeon's  blood.'" 

"My  father  always  said  it  should  be  blood-red," 
said  Marietta.  "But  I  thought  he  meant  some- 
thing different,  something  more  scarlet." 

Nella  came  and  looked  too,  convinced  that  the 
glass  had  in  some  way  turned  out  more  beautiful 
by  the  magic  of  her  mistress's  touch. 

"It  is  a  miracle!"  cried  the  woman  of  the  peo- 
ple.    "Some  saint  must  have  made  this." 

The  glass  glowed  like  a  gem  and  seemed  to  give 
out  a  light  of  its  own.  As  Zorzi  and  Marietta  looked, 
its  rich  glow  spread  over  their  faces.  It  was  that 
rare  glass  which,  from  old  cathedral  windows,  casts 
such  a  deep  stain  upon  the  pavement  that  one 
would  believe  the  marble  itself  must  be  dyed  with 
unchanging  colour. 

******* 


112  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Marietta  lowered  her  hand  and  turned  the  piece 
of  glass  sideways,  to  see  how  it  would  look. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  it?"  she  asked.  "It 
must  not  be  left  any  longer  in  the  crucible." 

"No.  It  ought  to  be  taken  out  at  once.  Such 
colour  must  be  kept  for  church  windows." 

"We  had  better  let  the  fires  go  out/'  said  Mari- 
etta.    "It  will  cool  in  the  crucible  as  it  is." 

"I  would  give  anything  to  have  that  crucible 
empty,  or  an  empty  one  in  its  place,"  answered 
Zorzi.  "This  is  a  great  discovery,  but  it  is  not 
exactly  what  the  master  expected.  I  have  an  idea 
of  my  own,  which  I  should  like  to  try." 

"Then  we  must  empty  the  crucible.  There  is 
no  other  way.  The  glass  will  keep  its  colour,  what- 
ever shape  we  give  it.     Is  there  much  of  it?" 

"There  may  be  twenty  or  thirty  pounds'  weight," 
answered  Zorzi.     "No  one  can  tell." 

Nella  listened  in  mute  surprise.  She  had  never 
seen  Marietta  with  old  Beroviero,  and  she  was 
amazed  to  hear  her  young  mistress  talking  about  the 
processes  of  glass-making  as  familiarly  as  of  do- 
mestic things. 


Nella  went  every  other  day  and  did  all  that  was 
necessary  for  Zorzi's  recovery.  Zorzi  went  about 
on  crutches,  swinging  his  helpless  foot  as  he  walked. 


GLASS-BLOWERS  113 

He  sought  consolation  in  his  art,  and  as  soon 
us  he  could  stand  and  move  about  with  his 
crutches  he  threw  his  whole  pent-up  energy  into 
his  work.  The  accidental  discovery  of  the 
red  glass  had  unexpectedly  given  him  an  empty 
crucible  with  which  to  make  an  experiment  of  his 
own,  and  while  the  materials  were  fusing  he  at- 
tempted to  obtain  the  new  colour  in  the  other  two, 
by  dropping  pieces  of  copper  into  each  regardless 
of  the  master's  instructions.  To  his  inexpressible 
disappointment  he  completely  failed  in  this,  and 
the  glass  he  produced  was  of  the  commonest  tint. 

Then  he  grew  reckless ;  he  removed  the  two 
crucibles  that  had  contained  what  had  been  made 
according  to  Beroviero's  theories  until  he  had 
added  the  copper,  and  he  began  afresh  according 
to  his  own  belief. 

The  very  first  test  he  took  of  the  glass  was  suc- 
cessful beyond  his  highest  expectations.  He  had 
grown  reckless,  and  carried  away  by  the  love  of  the 
art  and  by  the  certainty  of  ultimate  success  which 
every  man  of  genius  feels  almost  from  boyhood, 
he  had  deliberately  attempted  to  produce  the  white 
glass  for  which  Beroviero  was  famous.  He  followed 
a  theory  of  his  own  in  doing  so,  for  although  he  was 
tolerably  sure  of  the  nature  of  the  ingredients,  as 
was  every  workman  in  the  house,  neither  he  nor 
they  knew  anything  of  the  proportions  in  which 


114  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Beroviero  mixed  the  substances,  and  every  glass- 
maker  knows  by  experience  that  those  proportions 
constitute  by  far  the  most  important  element  of 
success. 

Zorzi  had  not  poured  out  the  specimen  on  the 
table  as  he  had  done  when  the  glass  was  coloured ; 
on  the  contrary  he  had  taken  some  on  the  blow-pipe 
and  had  begun  to  work  with  it  at  once,  for  the 
three  great  requisites  were  transparency,  ductility, 
and  lightness.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  convinced 
himself  that  his  glass  possessed  all  these  qualities 
in  an  even  higher  degree  than  the  master's  own,  and 
that  it  was  immeasurably  superior  to  anything 
which  the  latter's  own  sons  or  any  other  glass- 
maker  could  produce.  Zorzi  had  taken  very  little 
at  first,  and  he  made  of  it  a  thin  phial  of  graceful 
shape,  turned  the  mouth  outward,  and  dropped 
the  little  vessel  into  the  bed  of  ashes.  He  would 
have  set  it  in  the  annealing  oven,  but  he  wished  to 
try  the  weight  of  it,  and  he  let  it  cool.  Taking  it 
up  when  he  could  touch  it  safely,  it  felt  in  his  hand 
like  a  thing  of  air.  On  the  shelf  was  another  nearly 
like  it  in  size,  which  he  had  made  long  ago  with 
Beroviero's  glass.  There  were  scales  on  the  table ; 
he  laid  one  phial  in  each,  and  the  old  one  was  by 
far  the  heavier.  He  had  to  put  a  number  of  penny- 
weights into  the  scale  with  his  own  before  the  two 
were  balanced. 


GLASS-BLOWERS  115 

His  heart  almost  stood  still,  and  he  could  not 
believe  his  good  fortune.  He  took  the  sheet  of 
rough  paper  on  which  he  had  written  down  the 
precise  contents  of  the  three  crucibles,  and  he 
carefully  went  over  the  proportions  of  the  ingre- 
dients in  the  one  from  which  he  had  just  taken  his 
specimen.  He  made  a  strong  effort  of  memory, 
trying  to  recall  whether  he  had  been  careless  and 
inexact  in  weighing  any  of  the  materials,  but  he 
knew  that  he  had  been  most  precise.  He  had  also 
noted  the  hour  at  which  he  had  put  the  mixture  into 
the  crucible  on  Saturday,  and  he  now  glanced  at 
the  sand-glass  and  made  another  note.  But  he  did 
not  lay  the  paper  upon  the  table,  where  it  had  been 
lying  for  two  days,  kept  in  place  by  a  little  glass 
weight.  It  had  become  his  most  precious  posses- 
sion ;  what  was  written  on  it  meant  a  fortune  as 
soon  as  he  could  get  a  furnace  for  himself;  it  was 
his  own,  and  not  the  master's ;  it  was  wealth,  it 
might  even  be  fame.  Beroviero  might  call  him  to 
account  for  misusing  the  furnace,  but  that  was  no 
capital  offence  after  all,  and  it  was  more  than  paid 
for  by  the  single  crucible  of  magnificent  red  glass. 
Zorzi  was  attempting  to  reproduce  that  too,  for  he 
had  the  master's  notes  of  what  the  pot  contained, 
and  it  was  almost  ready  to  be  tried ;  he  even  had 
the  piece  of  copper  carefully  weighed  to  be  equal 
in  bulk  with  the  ladle  that  had  been  melted.     If 


116  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

he  succeeded  there  also,  that  was  a  new  secret  for 
Beroviero,  but  the  other  was  for  himself. 

All  that  morning  he  revelled  in  the  delight  of 
working  with  the  new  glass. 

While  he  warmed  the  end  of  his  blow-pipe  at  the 
'bocca'  he  looked  to  right  and  left  to  see  where 
the  working-stool  and  marver  were  placed,  and  to 
be  sure  that  the  few  tools  he  needed  were  at  hand, 
the  pontil,  the  'procello,' — that  is,  the  small 
elastic  tongs  for  modelling  —  and  the  shears.  He 
pushed  his  blow-pipe  into  the  melted  glass  and 
drew  it  out,  let  it  cool  a  moment  and  then  thrust  it 
in  again  to  take  up  more  of  the  stuff. 

The  glass  grew  and  swelled,  lengthened  and 
contracted  with  his  breath  and  under  his  touch. 
At  the  exact  moment  when  the  work  was  cool 
enough  to  stand  he  attached  the  pontil  with  its 
drop  of  liquid  glass  to  the  lower  end,  put  the  long 
and  heavy  blow-pipe  on  the  floor  and  held  his  piece 
on  the  lighter  pontil,  heating  it  again  at  the  fire. 

Zorzi's  deft  hands  made  the  large  piece  he  was 
forming  spin  on  itself  and  take  new  shape  at  every 
turn,  until  it  had  the  perfect  curve  of  those  slim- 
necked  Eastern  vessels  for  pouring  water  upon  the 
hands,  which  have  not  even  now  degenerated  from 
their  early  grace  of  form.  While  it  was  still  very 
hot,  he  took  a  sharp  pointed  knife  from  his  belt  and 
with  a  turn  of  his  hand  cut  a  small  hole,  low  down 


GLASS-BLOWERS  117 

on  one  side.  The  mouth  was  widened  and  then 
turned  in  and  out  like  the  leaf  of  a  carnation.  He 
left  the  cooling  piece  on  the  pontil,  lying  across  the 
arms  of  the  stool,  and  took  his  blow-pipe  again. 

Zorzi  began  to  make  the  spout,  for  it  was  a  large 
ampulla  that  he  was  fashioning.  He  drew  the  glass 
out,  widened  it,  narrowed  it,  cut  it,  bent  it  and  fin- 
ished off  the  nozzle  before  he  touched  it  with  wet 
iron  and  made  it  drop  into  the  ashes.  A  moment 
later  he  had  heated  the  thick  end  of  it  again  and 
was  welding  it  over  the  hole  he  had  made  in  the 
body  of  the  vessel. 

He  went  on  to  make  the  handle  of  the  ampulla, 
an  easy  matter  compared  with  the  making  of  the 
spout.  But  the  highest  part  of  glass-blowing  lies 
in  shaping  graceful  curves,  and  it  is  often  in  the 
smallest  differences  of  measurement  that  the  pieces 
made  by  Beroviero  and  Zorzi  —  preserved  intact 
to  this  day  —  differ  from  similar  things  made  by 
lesser  artists.  Yet  in  those  little  variations  lies  all 
the  great  secret  that  divides  grace  from  awkward- 
ness. Zorzi  now  had  the  whole  vessel,  with  its  spout 
and  handle,  on  the  pontil.  It  was  finished,  but  he 
could  still  ornament  it.  He  began  to  take  little 
drops  of  glass  from  the  furnace  on  the  end  of  a  thin 
iron,  and  he  drew  them  out  into  thick  threads  and 
heated  them  again  and  laid  them  on  the  body  of 
the  ampulla,  twisting  and  turning  each  bit  till  he 


118  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

had  no  more,  and  forming  a  regular  raised  design 
on  the  surface. 

A  marvellous  dish  with  upturned  edge  and  orna- 
mented foot  was  the  next  thing  he  made,  and  he 
placed  it  at  once  in  the  annealing  oven.  Then  he 
made  a  tall  drinking  glass  such  as  he  had  never 
made  before,  and  then,  in  contrast,  a  tiny  ampulla, 
so  small  that  he  could  almost  hide  it  in  his  hand, 
with  its  spout,  yet  decorated  with  all  the  perfection 
of  a  larger  piece.  He  worked  on,  careless  of  the 
time,  his  genius  all  alive,  the  rest  a  distant  dream. 


Zorzi  sat  on  a  low  bench,  blackened  with  age, 
against  the  whitewashed  wall  of  a  small  and  dimly 
lighted  room,  which  was  little  more  than  a  cell, 
but  was  in  reality  the  place  where  prisoners  waited 
immediately  before  being  taken  into  the  presence 
of  the  Ten. 

There  were  witnesses  of  all  that  had  happened. 
There  was  Giovanni,  whom  the  Governor  had 
forced  to  appear,  much  against  his  will,  as  the  prin- 
cipal accuser  by  the  letter  that  had  led  to  Zorzi's 
arrest,  and  the  letter  itself  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
Council's  secretary.  But  there  was  also  Pasquale, 
who  could  speak  for  his  character;  and  Angelo 
Beroviero  was  there  to  tell  the  truth  as  far  as  he 
knew  it. 


GLASS-BLOWERS  119 

Zorzi  waited  on  his  bench,  listening  to  the  tread 
of  the  guards. 

At  last  the  footsteps  ceased,  the  key  ground  and 
creaked  as  it  turned,  and  the  door  was  opened. 
Two  tall  guards  stood  looking  at  him,  and  one  of 
them  motioned  to  him  to  come.  A  door  was  opened 
and  closed  after  him,  and  he  was  suddenly  standing 
alone  in  the  presence  of  the  Ten,  feeling  that  he 
could  not  find  a  word  to  say  if  he  were  called  upon 
to  speak. 

A  kindly  voice  broke  the  silence  that  seemed  to 
have  lasted  many  minutes. 

"Is  this  the  person  whom  we  are  told  is  in  league 
with  Satan?" 

It  was  the  Doge  himself  who  spoke,  nodding  his 
hoary  head,  as  very  old  men  do,  and  looking  at 
Zorzi's  face  with  gentle  eyes,  almost  colourless 
from  extreme  age. 

"This  is  the  accused,  your  Highness/'  replied  the 
secretary  from  his  desk,  already  holding  in  his 
hand  Giovanni's  letter. 

Zorzi  saw  that  the  Council  of  Ten  was  much  more 
numerous  than  its  name  implied.  The  Council- 
lors were  between  twenty  and  thirty,  sitting  in  a 
semi-circle,  against  a  carved  wooden  wainscot,  on 
each  side  of  the  aged  Doge,  Christoforo  More,  who 
had  yet  one  more  year  to  live.  There  were  other 
persons  present  also,  of  whom  one  was  secretary, 


120  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

the  rest  being  apparently  there  to  listen  to  the  pro- 
ceedings and  to  give  advice  when  they  were  called 
upon  to  do  so. 

In  spite  of  the  time  of  the  year,  the  Councillors 
were  all  splendidly  robed  in  the  red  velvet  mantles, 
edged  with  ermine,  and  the  velvet  caps  which  made 
up  the  state  dress  of  all  patricians  alike,  and  the 
Doge  wore  his  peculiar  cap  and  coronet  of  office. 
Zorzi  had  never  seen  such  an  assembly  of  imposing 
and  venerable  men,  some  with  long  grey  beards, 
some  close  shaven ;  all  grave,  all  thoughtful,  all 
watching  him  with  quietly  scrutinizing  eyes.  He 
stood  leaning  a  little  on  his  stick,  and  he  breathed 
more  freely  since  the  dreaded  moment  had  come  at 
last. 

Some  one  bade  the  secretary  read  the  accusation, 
and  Zorzi  listened  with  wonder  and  disgust. 

"What  have  you  to  say?"  inquired  the  secretary, 
looking  up  from  the  paper  with  a  pair  of  small  and 
piercing  grey  eyes.  "The  Supreme  Council  will 
hear  your  defence." 

"I  can  tell  the  truth,"  said  Zorzi  simply,  and 
when  he  had  spoken  the  words  he  was  surprised  that 
his  voice  had  not  trembled. 

"That  is  all  the  Supreme  Council  wishes  to  hear," 
answered  the  secretary.     "Speak  on." 

"It  is  true  that  I  am  a  Dalmatian,"  Zorzi  said, 
"and  by  the  laws  of  Venice,   I   should   not  have 


GLASS-BLOWERS  121 

learned  the  art  of  glass-blowing.  I  came  to  Murano 
more  than  five  years  ago,  being  very  poor,  and 
Messer  Angelo  Beroviero  took  me  in,  and  let  me 
take  care  of  his  private  furnace,  at  which  he  makes 
many  experiments.  In  time,  he  trusted  me,  and 
when  he  wished  something  made,  to  try  the  nature 
of  the  glass,  he  let  me  make  it,  but  not  to  sell  such 
things.  At  first  they  were  badly  made,  but  I  loved 
the  art,  and  in  a  short  time  I  grew  to  be  skilful  at 
it.  So  I  learnt.  Sirs  —  I  crave  pardon,  your 
Highness,  and  you  lords  of  the  Supreme  Council, 
that  is  all  I  have  to  tell.  I  love  the  glass,  and  I 
can  make  light  things  of  it  in  good  design,  because 
I  love  it,  as  the  painter  loves  his  colours  and  the 
sculptor  his  marble.  Give  me  glass,  and  I  will 
make  coloured  air  of  it,  and  gossamer  and  silk  and 
lace.  It  is  all  I  know,  it  is  my  art,  I  live  in  it,  I 
feel  in  it,  I  dream  in  it.  To  my  thoughts,  and  eyes 
and  hands,  it  is  what  the  love  of  a  fair  woman  is  to 
the  heart.  While  I  can  work  and  shape  the  things 
I  see  when  I  close  my  eyes,  the  sun  does  not  move, 
the  day  has  no  time,  winter  no  clouds,  and  summer 
no  heat.  When  I  am  hindered  I  am  in  exile  and  in 
prison,  and  alone." 

The  Doge  nodded  his  head  in  kindly  approbation. 

"The  young  man  is  a  true  artist." 

"Have  you  anything  more  to  say?"  asked  the 
secretary,  again  speaking  to  Zorzi. 


122  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

"I  have  said  all,  save  to  thank  your  Highness  and 
your  lordships  with  all  my  heart/'  answered  the 
Dalmatian. 

"  Withdraw,  and  await  the  decision  of  the  Supreme 
Council." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  tread  of  the 
guards  ceased  again  and  the  door  was  opened,  and 
Zorzi  rose  as  quickly  as  he  could  when  he  saw  that 
it  was  the  secretary  of  the  Ten  who  entered,  carry- 
ing in  his  hand  a  document  which  had  a  seal  at- 
tached to  it. 

"Your  prayer  is  granted,"  said  the  man  with  the 
sharp  grey  eyes.  "By  this  patent  the  Supreme 
Council  permits  you  to  set  up  a  glass-maker's  fur- 
nace of  your  own  in  Murano,  and  confers  upon  you 
all  the  privileges  of  a  born  glass-blower,  and  prom- 
ises you  especial  protection  if  any  one  shall  attempt 
to  interfere  with  your  rights." 

Zorzi  took  the  precious  parchment  eagerly,  and 
he  felt  the  hot  blood  rushing  to  his  face  as  he  tried 
to  thank  the  secretary,  but  in  a  moment  the  busy 
personage  was  gone,  after  speaking  a  few  words 
to  the  guards,  and  Zorzi  heard  the  rustling  of  his 
silk  gown  in  the  corridor. 

"You  are  free,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  guards  very 
civilly,  and  holding  the  door  open. 

Zorzi  went  out  in  a  dream,  finding  his  way  he 
knew  not  how,  as  he  received  a  word  of  direction 


GLASS-BLOWERS  123 

here  and  there  from  soldiers  who  guarded  the  stair- 
cases. When  he  was  aware  of  outer  things  he  was 
standing  under  the  portico  that  surrounds  the  court- 
yard of  the  ducal  palace. 

Two  steps  away  Pasquale  stood,  in  his  best 
clothes  and  his  clean  shirt,  for  he  had  been  one  of 
the  witnesses,  and  he  was  firmly  planted  on  his 
bowed  legs,  his  long  arms  hanging  down  by  his 
sides ;  his  little  red  eyes  w  re  fixed  on  Zorzi's  face, 
his  ugly  jaw  was  set  like  a  mastiffs,  and  his  ex- 
traordinary face  seemed  cut  in  two  by  a  monstrous 
smile  of  delight. 

Taken  from  Marietta,  by  Francis  Marion  Crawford, 
published  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


POTTERY 

From  Brunei's  Tower 

BY 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Harvey  ran  away  from  a  reformatory,  threw  his 
stone-weighted  clothes  into  the  water,  put  on  those 
of  a  scarecrow,  for  disguise,  and  sped,  hot-foot, 
across  country,  and  took  refuge  in  the  Pottery. 
Here  he  was  accepted  as  an  apprentice,  and  learned 
the  trade,  at  the  same  time  learning  how  to  become 
a  man  who  was  willing  to  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
friend. 

Eden  Phillpotts,  the  author  of  Brunei's  Tower,  is 
an  English  novelist  who  was  born  in  India.  He 
writes  chiefly  about  the  Devonshire  region,  in 
England. 

For  adults. 


POTTERY 

A  tall,  thin  boy  was  stealing  turnips,  and  chance 
sending  a  man  to  look  over  a  gate,  that  accident 
determined  the  whole  future  life  of  the  turnip- 
stealer,  and  opened  the  way  to  preliminary  passages 
therein  of  an  exciting  nature.  When  the  man  at 
the  gate  climbed  over  it,  hailed  him  as  a  "  rogue,7' 
and  hastened  towards  him,  the  boy  bolted,  with 
the  bored  air  of  a  fox,  who  thinks  that  he  has  thrown 
off  the  hounds  and  yet  again  hears  them  baying  on 
his  tracks.  He  had  run  far,  but  now  he  had  to 
run  once  more.  He  wore  gray  trousers,  well  caked 
with  mud,  that  had  taken  a  gloss  where  the  legs  of 
them  rubbed  together.  A  leathern  belt  held  them 
up ;  and  for  the  rest  he  was  clad  in  a  flannel  shirt, 
open  at  the  neck,  and  a  coat  of  rags.  This  last, 
until  the  night  before,  belonged  to  a  scarecrow, 
for  the  boy  had  discarded  his  own  twenty  good  miles 
up  the  country.  The  exchange  was  of  real  rather 
than  apparent  advantage.  Now  he  began  to  run 
again,  and  he  ate  a  turnip  while  he  ran,  for  his 
stomach  was  empty  and  craved  filling.  At  a  gap 
in  the  hedge  he  went  through,  and  reached  a  lane 

127 


128  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

that  extended  beside  the  field.  For  a  moment  he 
waited  to  see  if  still  pursued. 

The  lane  opened  on  to  a  highroad,  and  the  road 
was  empty.  He  followed  it,  therefore,  and  before 
the  pursuer  had  emerged  upon  it,  he  turned  again, 
where  a  bypath  opened  off  on  the  other  side.  It 
led  beneath  an  avenue  of  fir-trees  to  a  huddle  of 
buildings  that  clustered  round  about  a  tower. 
Right  ahead  of  him  was  a  glass  door,  and  to  the 
right,  where  a  blunger  stood  against  the  side  of  the 
pottery  and  all  the  place  was  stained  and  spattered 
with  red  mud,  there  opened  a  great  door  into  dark- 
ness. The  promise  of  darkness  and  possible  peace 
appealed  to  his  bewildered  senses,  and  he  plunged 
into  the  gloomy  aperture,  as  a  hunted  rat  plunges 
into  a  strange  hole. 

Accident  so  ordered  his  entry  that  none  saw  it, 
and  although  he  now  entered  the  portals  of  a  hive 
where  there  worked  near  a  half  hundred  men  and 
boys,  not  one  for  the  space  of  ten  seconds  was  visible 
—  a  time  sufficient  to  give  the  intruder  safe  hiding. 

For  a  moment  the  great  chamber  into  which  he 
plunged  seemed  dark,  but  a  fan  of  light  fell  from  the 
doorway  and  showed  a  mighty  mound  of  coal  piled 
in  the  midst.  This  gleamed  red  on  one  side,  white 
upon  the  other ;  while  behind  it  all  was  infinitely  black. 
Into  the  gloom  the  lad  stumbled,  proceeded  as  far  as 
he  was  able,  and  finally  flung  himself  down. 


POTTERY  129 

He  looked  about  him,  and  his  eyes  were  tamed 
to  the  darkness  and  began  to  see.  Dim  daylight 
did  not  lack,  where  a  small  semi-circular  window, 
high  aloft,  let  fall  a  straight  shaft  of  velvety  bright- 
ness from  above.  It  came  slantwise  down,  struck 
the  ragged  mound  of  coal,  and  oozed  out  in  a  disk 
upon  the  earthern  floor.  Behind  this  circle  of  light 
arose  the  mighty  mass  of  a  kiln  —  a  brick  pile  all 
clamped  and  bound  with  steel  that  ascended  half- 
way to  the  roof.  Beneath,  along  the  begrimed 
floor,  opened  the  mouths  of  the  furnaces,  six  in 
number,  and  three  were  dark,  while  three  glared 
iike  huge  red  eyes  out  of  an  open  setting.  Their 
iron  bars  were  red  hot,  and  behind  them  a  terrific 
incandescence  blazed  and  lit  the  surrounding  gloom 
with  its  fiery  glow. 

In  the  midst  of  the  great  floor  lay  fifty  tons  of 
coal,  with  many  faggots  of  brushwood,  and  round 
about  —  some  empty,  some  laden  with  the  earthen- 
ware for  the  kilns  —  stood  the  potters'  six-foot 
boards.  A  flight  of  wooden  stairs  ascended  from 
the  furnace-room,  and  other  doorways  opened  upon 
the  north  and  east  of  it.  The  grating  pulses  of 
machinery  throbbed  at  hand,  mingling  with  the 
steady  breath  of  the  fire. 

There  came  now  men  and  boys  with  tins  of  food, 
and  set  them  on  the  ovens  ;  for  the  dinner-hour  was 
near,  and  a  row  of  little  vessels  soon  simmered  and 


130  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

steamed  nigh  the  furnaces.  Then  all  be  brayed ; 
the  endless  belts  that  ran  from  a  steam-engine  to 
the  wheels  and  lathes  aloft  revolved  no  more ;  the 
engine  stopped  its  panting,  and  work  ceased. 

Twenty  men  trailed  down  the  steps  and  emerged 
from  the  doors.  Some  passed  through  the  furnace- 
house,  and  departed  on  bicycles  or  on  foot ;  others 
settled  within  the  genial  glare  of  the  fires,  and  turned 
attention  to  tins  and  basins  which  held  the  midday 
meal.  The  unseen  boy  peered  out  of  the  darkness 
and  sniffed  the  food.  He  listened  while  talk  ran 
among  the  workers. 

The  engine-man,  Jeremiah  Tolley,  was  tall  and 
sallow,  with  black  hands  and  bright,  kindly  eyes. 
He  controlled  the  blunger,  too,  and  mixed  the  clay 
—  labor  that  stained  his  " overalls"  and  jacket  to 
redness.  He  sat  beside  Sam  Punchard,  a  master 
fireman.  He  also  was  sallow,  and  the  nature  of  his 
calling,  where  he  circled  in  the  heat  of  the  furnaces, 
brought  forth  a  permanent  moisture  on  his  brow. 
His  face  shone  with  heat,  and  his  black  beard, 
turning  to  gray,  also  shone.  When  he  opened  a 
furnace-door  the  light  rolled  out  upon  him  in  a 
flood,  and  his  lean  grimy  figure  was  transformed 
so  that  he  seemed  to  glow  red  hot.  He  slept  little, 
and  was  well  pleased  to  sit  up  with  his  furnaces 
three  nights  a  week.  There,  through  the  long 
hours  of  darkness,  he  dwelt  in  that  ebony  cave, 


POTTERY  131 

shovelling  coal,  regulating  the  temperature  of  his 
ovens,  and  taking  a  trial  now  and  then  to  mark 
the  progress  of  the  baking. 

Of  late  the  fire-tortured  kilns  had  been  rebuilt, 
and  now  Tolley  asked  the  fireman  if  he  was  satisfied. 

"The  ware  tells  you  better  than  what  I  can/' 
answered  Mr.  Punchard.  "I  don't  want  to  see 
anything  better,  and  nothing  better  could  be  seen." 

A  mood  of  cheerfulness  animated  the  group,  for 
Christmas  was  near,  and  it  so  fell  that  five  holidays 
would  come  together.  The  works  were  destined 
to  close  upon  a  Tuesday,  and  not  open  again  till 
the  following  Monday. 

They  chaffed  a  newcomer  who  had  been  tried  in 
various  departments  and  found  wanting.  He  was 
a  fair  lad,  with  a  face  of  unconquerable  good- 
humour  and  the  frame  of  an  athlete. 

"And  what  might  you  be  doing  now,  Jack  Ede?" 
asked  Mr.  Tolley.  "Since  you  left  the  presses, 
I  ain't  seen  much  of  you ;  but  I  heard  you  was 
busy  breaking  things  in  the  packing-room." 

Jack  Ede  denied  that  he  was  breaking  crockery 
in  the  packing-sheds. 

"I'm  along  with  you,  ain't  I,  Mr.  Coysh?"  he 
asked ;  and  Timothy  Coysh  made  answer.  He 
was  an  elderly,  full-bodied  man,  with  a  jolly  face 
and  a  blue  chin,  and  he  wore  a  blue  jersey,  like  a 
sailor's. 


132  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

"  Yes,  Jack's  at  the  tea-pot  spouts  along  with  me. 
I  don't  say  as  I'll  never  teach  him  to  make  'em,  but 
I  haven't  given  up  hope." 

"I'd  sooner  make  the  handles,"  ventured  Jack; 
whereupon  one  Rupert  Marsland,  a  " handler" 
and  painter,  laughed  him  to  scorn. 

Marsland  was  young,  and  entertained  a  cheerful 
conceit  of  himself.  He  had  set  the  handles  to  many 
hundreds  of  teapots  with  accuracy  and  perfection. 
Perhaps  there  was  not  a  man  in  England  who  could 
handle  a  pot  better  than  he  did. 

"You  to  think  you  can  handle!"  he  said.  "I'd 
like  to  see  those  leg-of-mutton  paws  rolling  clay 
for  handles !" 

"It's  Craft,  Rupert  —  skilled  craft,"  said  the 
fireman.  "Quite  a  clever  little  job  in  its  way,  but 
no  more  to  be  named  alongside  Godbeer's  work  on 
the  lathe,  than  you  are  worthy  to  be  named  along- 
side us." 

"The  clay's  first,"  said  Mr.  Body.  "The  clay's 
first  and  last  —  the  beginning  and  the  middle  and 
the  end  of  pottery.  Then  comes  us,  that  do  for 
it ;  and  'tis  a  nice  question  how  we  stand  to 
it.  'Tis  a  sort  of  king  be  the  clay,  if  you  ask 
me,  and  we're  the  servants  —  some  small,  some 
great." 

"And  each  of  us  thinks  his  job's  the  most  im- 
portant —  and  quite  right,  too,"  declared  Godbeer. 


POTTERY  133 

He  spoke  in  jest,  but  when  the  assertion  was 
examined  it  seemed  that  the  turner  had  hit  the 
truth.  Billy  Godbeer,  the  son  of  the  turner,  ground 
copper  in  a  stone  mortar,  then  winnowed  it  through 
a  fine  lawn.  The  copper  came  in  all  shapes  to 
Brunei's  Tower.  Old  kettles  or  rivets,  or  any 
scraps  or  shavings  of  the  metal  answered  the  pur- 
pose here.  The  pieces  were  put  into  a  sagger  of 
fireclay  and  then  subjected  to  the  greatest  heat 
of  the  kilns.  They  melted,  cooled  again,  and  re- 
appeared presently  in  a  rotten  crust.  This  was 
pulverized  until  it  became  a  purple  dust.  Then, 
with  addition  of  red  and  white  lead,  of  china  stone 
and  ground  flint,  it  produced  the  famous  green  glaze 
of  the  pottery,  a  colour  lustrous  and  rich  and  un- 
matched on  West-Country  ware. 

They  argued  each  for  himself  in  great  good- 
humour,  and  none  convinced  another. 

Then  fell  diversion,  for  a  sudden  noise  appeared 
to  break  from  the  heart  of  the  heap  of  coal  beside 
them,  and  a  white  face  looked  out  of  the  darkness. 
Fire  struck  on  the  runaway's  countenance  and 
revealed  his  features. 

"Who  the  mischief  are  you?"  cried  Punchard,  as 
the  boy  scrambled  over  the  coals  and  stood  before 
them. 

"Give  me  a  bite,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  master, 
then  I'll  tell  you.     I've  been  watching  you  chaps 


134  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

feast,  and  —  I've  had  nothing  but  a  turnip  for  two 
days." 

"A  worthless  dog,  I'll  warrant/'  declared  Mr. 
Punchard ;  but  he  left  the  last  morsels  of  his  pud- 
ding at  the  bottom  of  a  basin  and  handed  it  to  the 
boy.     They  were  gone  in  a  moment. 

" Thank  you  for  that/'  said  the  stranger.  "Who 
comes  next?     No  decent  offer  refused." 

His  eyes  were  bright  and  his  face  thin.  The  red 
glow  from  the  ovens  showed  a  hollow  in  his  cheeks, 
revealed  his  thin  arms  and  legs,  and  gleamed  on 
his  round,  closely  cropped  head.  His  mouth  was 
hard  and  strong,  his  forehead  high.  He  stared  them 
out  of  countenance.  One  might  have  perceived 
that  this  boy  of  seventeen  possessed  a  stronger 
will  than  most  of  his  hearers. 

But  he  was  civil  enough  and  grateful  enough  for 
the  scraps  they  cast  to  him.  He  ate  everything 
that  could  be  eaten ;  gnawed  the  bone  of  God- 
beer's  chop ;  sucked  the  gravy  from  a  tin  that  had 
held  Thomas  Body's  stew ;  finished  Rupert  Mars- 
land's  bread  and  cheese,  and  consumed  an  apple 
Jack  Ede  threw  to  him. 

While  he  ate  he  repeated  his  thanks. 

"I'm  obliged,  I'm  sure,"  he  said.  "I've  never 
been  hungry  before  yesterday,  and  it's  a  queer 
sort  of  feeling  —  takes  you  in  the  middle  and  makes 
you  feel  as  if  you  was  falling  in  half." 


POTTERY  135 

"And  how  did  you  come  to  it,  and  where  have 
you  run  from?"  asked  Godbeer.  "No  use  for  you 
to  tell  us  you  haven't  run  away  from  somewhere, 
because  we  all  know  very  well  you  have." 

The  boy  looked  at  them  out  of  the  corners  of  his 
dark  brown  eyes.     For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer. 

"You'd  best  speak  up/'  declared  the  engine-man. 

"And  tell  us,"  added  Punchard,  "firstly  your 
name,  and,  secondly,  where  you've  come  from, 
and,  thirdly,  why  you  done  it." 

"So  I  will,  then,"  answered  the  lad,  with  sudden 
frankness.  *"My  name's  Harvey  Porter,  and  I've 
run  away  from  a  workhouse;   and  who  wouldn't  ?" 

"That  ain't  a  workhouse  coat,"  said  Ede. 

"No  —  I  got  it  off  a  scarecrow  up  Exeter  way. 
I  wasn't  going  to  be  given  away  by  a  coat.  Their 
jacket  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  river  with  a  stone  in 
it.  And  I  don't  know  where  I've  reached  to  more 
than  Adam.  I  thought  I'd  keep  on  going  till  I  got 
to  the  sea,  and  then  trust  to  luck." 

They  told  him  where  he  was,  and  he  evinced  a 
strong  desire  to  go  no  further. 

"All  I  want  is  work,  and  by  the  look  of  it  the 
work  here's  terrible  interesting,"  he  said. 

The  remark  pleased  Mr.  Body. 

"You've  got  sense  seemingly,"  he  answered. 
"And  you  speak  truer  than  you  know." 

Porter  declared  that  he  would  much  like  to  stop 


136  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

among  them.  "  George  Easterbrook,"  asserted 
Samuel  Punchard,  as  he  stoked  a  furnace  and 
slabbed  moisture  over  the  sealed  mouth  of  an  oven 
to  test  the  heat,  "  George  Easterbrook  would  think 
no  worse  of  you  for  running  away  from  a  workhouse ; 
but  that's  not  to  say  he's  got  any  use  for  another 
boy.     There's  six  of  the  toads  here  now." 

Porter  considered : 

"Would  it  be  any  harm  if  I  went  before  the 
master?     Would  he  see  me?" 

"He'd  see  you/'  declared  Godbeer,  "and  then 
you'll  see  a  man  that  is  a  man."      •     - 

"I'm  never  afraid  of  a  man/'  answered  the  youth. 
"There  weren't  no  men  where  I  came  from  —  only 
slave-drivers.  Take  me  before  your  master." 
Then  he  turned  to  Punchard : 

"You're  the  head  man,  I  reckon.  Won't  you 
do  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  so  "  admitted  the  fireman,  not  ill 
pleased  at  the  recognition.  "But  as  to  taking  a 
scarecrow  — " 

"If  you  don't,  I'll  see  him  on  my  own,"  said 
Porter. 

"Come  on,  then,  you  masterful  rip  !"  he  said,  and 
marched  out  of  the  dark  chamber  into  the  air  with 
Porter  at  his  heels. 

"Well,  Punchard,  and  what  do  you  want?" 
asked  George  Easterbrook. 


POTTERY  137 

He  sat  behind  his  desk  in  his  office  —  a  small 
chamber  of  somewhat  distinguished  appearance. 

Samuel  Punchard  was  a  favorite,  and  knew  it. 
The  head  fireman  possessed  rare  gifts.  His  work 
was  of  vital  importance,  for  to  understand  the 
process  of  lifting  a  kiln  to  its  limit  of  heat  and  con- 
trolling temperatures  that  ranged  two  thousand  de- 
grees was  a  craft  that  called  for  peculiar  skill,  and 
a  sort  of  intuition  denied  to  most.  The  fate  of 
every  crock  depended  upon  Mr.  Punchard,  and  he 
enjoyed  proportionate  respect  and  emolument.  He 
was  scrupulous,  proud  of  his  importance,  and  took 
himself  with  becoming  seriousness. 

"  'Tisn't  what  I  want  —  'tis  what  this  boy  wants, 
Mr.  Easterbrook." 

"Leave  him,"  said  the  master.  "I'll  talk  to 
him." 

Punchard  departed ;  and,  after  studying  Porter's 
countenance  a  moment  longer,  Easterbrook  spoke. 

His  first  word  was  one  of  kindness : 

"Sit  down  on  that  chair,  and  tell  me  why  you 
stole  turnips." 

The  boy  on  his  side  was  measuring  the  speaker. 
His  wits  worked,  and  his  knowledge  of  man  — 
wide  for  his  years  —  told  him  what  he  wanted  to 
learn.     He  considered,  then  answered : 

"I  was  starving  hungry,  sir,  and  I  had  to  eat 
something,   or  I'd  have  dropped  down.     I've  run 


138  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

away  from  a  workhouse  up  the  country.  They  kept 
me  to  dog's  work,  and  I  wouldn't  stand  it.  I 
want  to  learn  to  do  clever  things,  and  they  kept  me 
down  and  wouldn't  give  me  a  helping  hand.  I'm 
ready  to  go  heart  and  soul  at  anything.  I'm 
quick  with  my  hands,  and  I  want  to  train  'em  to 
something  that  calls  for  more  cleverness  than  break- 
ing stones." 

"They'll  find  you." 

The  boy  grinned  and  showed  very  white  teeth. 

"Not  if  you  don't  give  me  up,  sir." 

"I  sha'n't  give  you  up  —  that's  not  my  busi- 
ness." 

"I'm  terrible  wishful  to  find  a  friend  to  give  me  a 
chance."  He  spoke  with  art,  and  Easterbrook  was 
dimly  aware  of  it.  The  boy's  eyes  had  been  fixed 
on  one  of  the  frames  of  medals.  He  touched  it, 
and  then  sat  down  again. 

"'Twas  a  bit  askew,"  he  said. 

Presently,  seeking  Punchard,  Easterbrook  went 
out  into  the  works. 

"  Has  your  lodger  gone  ?  "  he  asked  the  engine-man. 

"He's  gone." 

"Then  take  in  this  boy  and  let  him  begin  out- 
side to-morrow.  One  week  this  boy  can  work, 
and  at  the  end  of  it  I'll  hear  what  you  have  got  to 
say.  A  penny  an  hour  he  shall  have ;  and  tell  him 
to  get  a  decent  coat  and  hat  before  to-morrow." 


POTTERY  139 

Next  morning,  through  the  dimpsy  light,  Porter, 
in  Mr.  Tolley's  old  coat,  set  forth  beside  the  engine- 
man  at  six  o'clock. 

The  pottery  rose  grey  through  the  low  mists  of 
dawn,  and  Brunei's  Tower,  with  the  great  silvery 
planes  of  the  main  roof  beneath  it,  resembled  a 
house  of  prayer  rather  than  a  house  of  work. 

"For  all  the  world  like  a  church,"  said  Porter. 
"It  rises  up  among  the  trees  with  the  green  fields 
round  it.     You'd  never  think  it  was  what  it  is." 

"Wait  till  the  steam  and  smoke's  flying,"  answered 
Mr.  Tolley.  "  Here's  Sam  Punchard,  you  see ;  he's 
going  home  now  for  a  rest,  because  he  was  up  with 
the  furnaces  all  last  night,  but  now  the  work's  done 
and  the  kilns  are  cooling.     Morning,  Samuel!" 

"Morning,  Jeremiah." 

"Kilns  working  all  right?" 

"Amazing  well." 

"We've  just  had  our  kilns  rebuilt,"  explained 
Mr.  Tolley.  "The  solid  fire-brick  is  eaten  away  in 
time,  and  melts  and  coats  the  inside  of  the  kilns 
with  glass ;  but  now  all's  made  new,  and  Mr. 
Punchard's  doing  wonders." 

At  seven  o'clock  they  were  at  work,  and  Tolley 
explained  his  duties. 

"Don't  ask  the  reasons  for  nothing  at  first,"  he 
said.  "You  do  just  exactly  what  you're  told,  and 
then  you  can  know  the  reason  after  if  you  want  to." 


140  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

"I'll  find  the  reasons  for  myself/'  answered 
Porter;  "there's  nothing  so  interesting  to  me, 
Mr.  Tolley,  as  finding  the  reasons  for  things." 

Mr.  Tolley  showed  him  a  heap  of  mud,  and  then 
conducted  him  to  a  cutting  in  a  field  not  far  dis- 
tant, where  another  clay  seam  ran  through  a 
meadow.  Like  a  red  gash  it  cut  the  green,  and 
above  it,  under  hedgerows  where  the  elms  shone 
touched  to  gold  through  the  gray  mist,  were  ewes. 
A  man  stood  in  a  cart  and  flung  out  turnips  to  them. 

"'Tis  a  wonderful  thing  to  work  at  skilled  labor 
in  the  midst  of  the  country,"  said  the  boy.  "I 
never  thought  of  machinery  and  steam  and  suchlike 
in  such  a  place  as  this." 

"Don't  let  your  mind  run  on,  nor  your  tongue 
neither,"  answered  the  other.  "Turn  over  that 
wheelbarrow,  and  list  to  me." 

Porter  learned  that  the  clay  from  the  field  held 
the  sand  and  was  "short,"  and  that  the  clay  from 
the  mound  beside  the  works  was  "fat." 

"You  mix  'em,  and  they  stand  together  and  help 
each  other,"  explained  Mr.  Tolley.  "The  two  sorts 
shrink  differently  under  heat,  and  the  fat  clay 
shrinks  too  much  by  itself,  so  we  add  the  short 
clay  to  it  —  not  half  and  half,  but  two  to  one. 
Now  fill  the  barrow  and  fetch  it  along." 

He  watched  and  marked  that  Porter  had  never 
used  a  spade  until  now.     He  then  showed  him  how 


POTTERY  141 

to  cut  out  the  clay  to  the  best  advantage,  and  fol- 
lowed him  with  the  barrow. 

"  Don't  put  aside  the  crocks/'  said  Tolley,  when 
they  returned  to  the  mound  beside  the  works. 
"The  broken  stuff's  clay  still.  We  grind  it  up  again 
along  with  the  rest.  This  machine's  the  blunger 
—  it's  here  the  clay  begins,  you  may  say.  We 
fling  it  in  ' short'  and  'fat/  and  the  wheels  inside 
revolve  by  steam,  and  churn  the  stuff  up  with 
water  until  all's  liquid  as  a  puddle  in  the  road." 

The  blunger,  which  stood  clay-stained  —  a  huge 
red  splash  on  the  outer  wall  of  the  work  —  was 
filled  presently.  When  Tolley  had  got  up  steam, 
he  set  it  in  motion,  while  Porter  watched  the  mass 
worked  with  water  into. liquid. 

The  boy  evinced  pleasure  in  seeing  the  red  earth 
dominate  him,  creep  over  him,  stain  his  trousers, 
spatter  his  shirt,  and  ruddy  his  arms  and  hands. 

"I'll  soon  be  as  red  as  anybody!"  he  declared. 

He  worked  hard,  but  was  too  slightly  built  for 
the  draught  of  the  wheelbarrow.  This  he  swiftly 
discovered,  and  modified  his  methods  accordingly. 

After  dinner  Mr.  Tolley  revealed  a  further  pro- 
cess, and  showed  how  the  liquid  clay  passed  from 
the  blunger  through  a  little  sieve  called  the  "lawn." 

"Every  pot  on  the  works,  from  the  latest  penny 
toys  to  the  great  vases  that  Mr.  Pitts  decorates, 
have  flowed  through   that,"  he   explained.       "'Tis 


142  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

just  a  bit  of  copper  gauze  —  so  fine  that  there's 
very  near  a  hundred  mesh  to  the  square  inch. 
The  clay  goes  through  in  particles  so  small  that 
your  eyes  couldn't  see  'em  separate;  and  then  they 
come  together  and  pour  into  the  settling-pit  inside, 
and  there  they  settle  for  twenty-four  hours,  and 
then  you  call  the  clay  'slip.'" 

Porter's  power  of  observation  was  great,  and  when 
the  general  principles  of  Mr.  Tolley's  work  had  been 
explained  to  him,  he  concentrated  on  those  duties 
the  engine-man  demanded.  He  proved  willing  and 
expeditious.  It  was  his  speed  that  impressed 
Jeremiah,  for  in  his  experience  the  quick  boy  was 
often  careless,  and  he  cautioned  his  new  assistant 
more  than  once  to  go  slower.  In  truth,  the  work  of 
the  engine,  blunger,  and  settling-trough  was  not  of  a 
sort  to  tax  anything  but  Porter's  physical  strength. 
He  had  mastered  it  after  two  days  at  the  pottery, 
and  was  stoking  efficiently  under  Jeremiah's  eye 
on  the  third  day. 

The  more  complicated  machinery  of  the  press 
took  longer,  but  the  boy  soon  perceived  how  the 
clay,  after  settling  as  "slip"  to  the  constituency  of 
liquid  cream  in  the  vat,  was  sucked  therefrom  by  a 
steam-pump  and  forced  into  the  clay  press.  Here 
stood  a  square  wooden  chest  of  sixteen  compart- 
ments, held  together  by  steel  rods ;  and  through  a 
nozzle   into  each    chamber   the    pump  pressed    the 


POTTERY  143 

fluid  "slip."  Within  the  press  were  packed  coarse 
canvas  cloths,  to  catch  the  clay,  and  a  full  press, 
when  opened,  produced  half  a  ton  of  perfected  clay, 
which  broke  out  from  the  cloths  in  stiff  cakes,  the 
colour  of  chocolate. 

Porter  took  immense  interest  in  this  machine. 
Harvey  now  followed  the  clay  from  the  press  to  the 
pug-mill.  Here  the  slabs  were  crushed  again, 
minced  to  pulp,  and  poured  forth,  like  a  glacier 
oozing  over  a  moraine,  to  be  stored  in  cellars. 

There  remained  only  to  regulate  the  clay  for  the 
throwers  and  moulders  in  their  shops  above,  and 
this  work  involved  physical  exercise  that  pleased 
the  new  boy.  He  vied  with  Charlie  and  the  others 
at  wedging  the  clay,  and  struggled  with  lumps  of 
twenty  and  thirty  pounds,  which  were  mauled  and 
beaten  on  a  board  faced  with  tin,  cut  to  pieces,  and 
massed  together  again,  until  finally  welded  of  even 
texture,  free  from  air. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  he  received  his  money, 
and  was  informed  that  he  might  go  on  for  another 
week  at  the  same  wages  if  he  wished  to  do  so.  He 
thanked  Easterbrook  with  a  flash  of  genuine  emo- 
tion. 

"D'you  like  the  work?"  asked  the  master. 

"I  want  to  master  it." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

The  boy  hesitated. 


144  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

"Yes,  I  do  then,  because  I'm  wishful  to  go  into 
the  higher  branches." 

Easterbrook,  not  ill  pleased  that  the  youth  should 
manifest  a  will  so  keen  to  learn,  spoke  before  ascend- 
ing to  the  throwing  room. 

"Go  on  as  you're  going  for  a  week,"  he  said, 
"and  maybe  I'll  let  you  go  round  the  works.  If 
you've  got  the  wits  and  want  to  follow  the  clay 
through,  you  shall." 

"I'd  like  to  perform  more  than  he'd  expect," 
said  Porter,  and  the  fireman  laughed. 

"The  first  thing  is  to  do  just  exactly  what  you're 
told  to  do  —  all  the  time  and  every  time.  And, 
for  that  matter,  if  you  do  so  much  as  that,  you'll 
astonish  him,  no  doubt,  because  he  understands 
boys  so  well  as  men,  and  the  human  boy  that's 
obedient  every  time  don't  happen.  Now  I'm  going 
to  take  a  trial." 

Samuel  approached  the  plastered  side  of  the  kiln 
where  the  wall  was  built  up  after  the  packing  of  the 
oven.  One  brick  stood  out  from  the  rest,  and  this 
he  now  removed.  Porter  peered  in,  and  saw  the 
interior  rendered  visible  by  its  own  fiery  light. 
A  terrific  heat  encompassed  the  oven,  and  the  un- 
seen flames  that  roared  through  the  flues  above  and 
below  turned  all  to  a  rosy-red  splendour.  Every 
pot  and  batt,  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  close-packed 
oven,    raged    white-hot    and    almost    transparent. 


POTTERY  145 

One  rich  splendour  of  glowing  colour  flowed  through 
the  mass,  and  it  seemed  impossible  that  earth  could 
stand  the  impact  of  such  a  temperature  without 
crumbling  to  dust. 

Mr.  Punchard  thrust  in  an  iron  rod  and  transfixed 
a  small  red-hot  fragment  placed  ready  for  the  pur- 
pose. He  drew  it  forth,  then  another ;  and  next 
he  thrust  back  the  brick  into  the  wall,  that  no 
degree  of  the  two  thousand  degrees  within  the  oven 
should  be  lost. 

Porter  watched  the  clay  cool,  and  as  the  red  fire 
died  out  of  it,  there  flashed  upon  its  face  bright 
colours  under  the  polish  of  the  glaze. 

The  sight  attracted  him,  but  he  forgot  the  lesser 
interest  of  his  own  experience  in  the  great  interest 
of  what  the  cooling  clay  told  Mr.  Punchard.  Not 
the  glaze,  not  the  colours,  but  the  tone  of  the  red 
earth  itself  was  Samuel's  concern. 

"A  good  trial,"  he  said.  "The  new  kilns  are  do- 
ing proper  wonders.  But  we're  not  hot  enough  yet. 
Let  me  see  you  stoke  the  furnace,  Harvey  Porter." 

Taken  from  Brunei's  Tower,  by  Eden  Phillpotts,  pub- 
lished by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


CIGAR-MAKING 

From  V.  V.'s  Eyes 

BY 

HENRY  SYDNOR  HARRISON 

A  young  slum  doctor  in  a  southern  city  works 
against  all  odds  for  better  health  and  more  endur- 
able working  conditions  among  the  city's  toilers. 
Among  the  small  circle  of  people  who  are  drawn  to 
his  leadership,  through  the  inspiration  of  his  devo- 
tion and  enthusiasm  or  through  his  compelling 
belief  in  their  innate  goodness  of  heart,  is  a  beautiful 
but  worldly  girl,  who  is  gradually  led  from  a  life 
of  unthinking,  selfish  pleasure  to  a  sense  of  respon- 
sibility and  then  to  an  interest  in  her  father's  cigar 
factory  and  employees  —  an  interest  which  has 
far-reaching  consequences. 

Henry  Sydnor  Harrison,  author  of  V.  V.'s  Eyes, 
Queed,  and  other  writings,  was  born  in  Tennessee, 
and  lives  in  West  Virginia. 

For  adults. 


CIGAR-MAKING 

"There  it  is.  .  .  .  Confess,  Hugo,  you're  sur- 
prised it's  so  small."  The  car  came  to  a  standstill, 
but  Hugo  helped  no  new-thoughter  to  belittle  hon- 
est business. 

"Unlike  some  I  could  mention,  I've  seen  factories 
before,"  quoth  he.  "I've  seen  a  million  dollar 
business  done  in  a  smaller  plant  than  that." 

Actually  Cally  found  the  Works  bigger  than  she 
had  expected ;  gazing  at  the  weather-worn  old 
pile,  spilling  dirtily  over  the  broken  sidewalk,  she 
was  struck  and  depressed  by  it. 

"You'll  get  intensely  interested  and  want  to 
stay  hours!"  said  she,  with  the  loud  roar  of  traffic 
in  her  ears.  "Remember  I  only  came  for  a  peep 
—  just  to  see  what  a  Works  is  like  inside." 

Hugo,  guiding  her  over  the  littered  sidewalk 
to  the  shabby  little  door  marked  "Office,"  swore 
that  she  could  not  make  the  peep  too  brief  for 
him. 

The  visitors  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  MacQueen. 
MacQueen  was  black,  bullet-headed,  and  dour. 
He  had  held  socialistic  views  in  his  fiery  youth, 
but  had  changed  his  mind  like  the  rest  of  us  when 

149 


150  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

he  found  himself  rising  in  the  world.  In  these  days 
he  received  a  percentage  on  the  Works'  profits, 
and  cursed  the  impudence  of  Labor.  As  to  visitors, 
his  politics  were  that  all  such  had  better  be  at  their 
several  homes,  and  he  indicated  these  opinions  to 
Miss  Heth  and  Mr.  Canning.  He  even  cited  them 
a  special  reason  against  visiting  to-day ;  new  ma- 
chines being  installed,  and  the  shop  upset  in  conse- 
quence. However,  he  did  not  feel  free  to  refuse  the 
request  outright,  and  when  Canning  grew  a  little 
sharp  —  the  sour  vizier  yielded,  though  with  no 
affectation  of  good  grace. 

"Well,  as  ye  like  then.  .  .  .     This  way." 

And  he  opened  a  door  with  a  briskness  which  indi- 
cated that  Carlisle's  expressed  wish  "just  to  look 
around"  should  be  carried  out  in  the  most  literal 
manner. 

The  opening  of  this  door  brought  a  surprise. 
Things  were  so  unceremonious  in  the  business  dis- 
trict, it  seemed,  that  you  stepped  from  the  super- 
intendent's office  right  into  the  middle  of  everything, 
so  to  speak. 

Cally,  of  course,  had  had  not  the  faintest  idea 
what  to  expect  at  the  Works.  She  had  prepared 
herself  to  view  horrors  with  calm  and  detachment, 
if  such  proved  to  be  the  iron  law  of  business.  But, 
gazing  confusedly  at  the  dim,  novel  spectacle  that 
so  suddenly  confronted  her,  she  saw  nothing  of  the 


CIGAR-MAKING  151 

kind.  Her  heart,  which  had  been  beating  a  little 
faster  than  usual,  rose  at  once. 

Technically  speaking,  which  was  the  way  Mr. 
MacQueen  spoke,  this  was  the  receiving-  and  stem- 
ming-room.  It  was  as  big  as  a  barn,  the  full  size 
of  the  building,  except  for  the  end  cut  off  to  make 
the  offices.  Negroes  worked  here ;  negro  men, 
mostly  wearing  red  undershirts.  They  sat  in  long 
rows,  with  quick  fingers  stripping  the  stems  of  the 
not  unfragrant  leaves.  These  were  stemmers,  it 
was  learned.  Piles  of  brown  tobacco  stood  beside 
each  stemmer,  bales  of  it  were  stacked,  ceiling- 
high,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  awaiting  their 
attentions.  The  negroes  eyed  the  visitors  respect- 
fully. They  were  heard  to  laugh  and  joke  over  their 
labors. 

Down  the  aisle  between  the  black  rows,  Gaily 
picked  her  way  after  Hugo  and  Mr.  MacQueen. 
The  busy  colored  stemmers  were  scarcely  inviting 
to  the  eye;  the  odor  of  tobacco  soon  grew  a  little 
overpowering;  there  were  dirt  and  dust  and  an 
excess  of  steam-heat  —  "  Tobacco  likes  to  be  warm," 
said  MacQueen.  And  yet  the  dainty  visitor's 
chief  impression,  somehow,  was  of  system  and 
usefulness  and  order,  of  efficient  and  on  the  whole 
well-managed   enterprise. 

The  inspecting  party  went  upward,  and  these 
heartening  impressions  were  strengthened.     On  the 


152  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

second  floor  was  another  stemming-room,  long 
and  hot  like  the  other;  only  here  the  stemming 
was  done  by  machines  —  "for  the  fancy  goods" 
—  and  the  machines  operated  by  negro  women. 
They  were  middle-aged  women,  many  of  them,  in- 
dustrious and  quite  placid  looking.  Perhaps  a 
quarter  of  the  whole  length  of  the  room  was  pro- 
saically filled  with  piled  tobacco  stored  ready  for 
the  two  floors  of  the  stemmers. 

Cally  had  been  observing  Hugo.  He  had  not 
wanted  to  come  at  all,  but  now  that  they  were  here 
he  exhibited  an  intelligent  interest  in  what  he  saw. 
Oddly  enough,  he  appeared  to  know  a  good  deal 
about  the  making  of  cigars,  and  his  pointed  com- 
ments gradually  elicited  a  new  tone  from  MacQueen, 
who  was  now  talking  to  him  almost  as  to  an  equal. 

"Learning  exactly  how  a  cheroot  factory  ought 
to  be  run?"  he  asked,  as  they  left  the  second  floor. 

"Oh,  exactly!  .  .  .  For  one  thing,  I'd  recom- 
mend a  ventilator  or  two,  shouldn't  you?" 

Progress  upward  was  by  means  of  a  most  prim- 
itive elevator,  nothing  but  an  open  platform  of 
bare  boards,  which  Mr.  MacQueen  worked  with 
one  hand,  and  which  interestingly  pushed  up  the 
floor  as  one  ascended.  As  they  rose  by  this  quaint 
device,  Carlisle  said : 

"  Is  this  next  the  bunching-room,  Mr.  MacQueen  ?  " 

"It  is,  Miss." 


CIGAR-MAKING  153 

"Bunching-room !"  echoed  Hugo,  with  satiric 
admiration,  "you  are  an  expert.  .  .  ." 

The  lift-shaft  ran  in  one  corner  of  the  long  build- 
ing. Debarking  on  the  third  floor,  the  visitors  had 
to  step  around  a  tall  shining  machine,  not  to  men- 
tion two  workmen  who  had  evidently  just  landed  it. 

Hugo  pointed  with  his  stick,  observed;  " Clearing 
in  new  floor-space,  I  see." 

MacQueen  nodded.  "  Knocked  out  a  cloak- 
room; our  fight  here's  for  space.  Profits  get 
smaller  all  the  time.  ..." 

The  visitors  squeezed  around  the  new  machines 
and,  doing  so,  stepped  full  into  the  bunching-room. 
And  the  girl  saw  at  one  glance  that  this  was  the 
strangest,  the  most  interesting  room  she  had  ever 
seen  in  her  life. 

Her  first  confused  sense  was  only  of  an  astonish- 
ing mass  of  dirty  white  womanhood.  The  thick 
hot  room  seemed  swarming  with  women,  alive  and 
teeming  with  women,  women  tumbling  all  over  each 
other  wherever  the  eye  turned.  Tall,  clacking 
machines  ran  closely  around  the  walls  of  the  room ; 
down  the  middle  stood  a  double  row  of  tables ;  and 
at  each  machine,  and  at  every  possible  place  at  the 
tables,  sat  a  woman  crowded  upon  a  woman,  and 
another  and  another. 

Dirt,  noise,  heat,  and  smell ;  women,  women, 
women.     Conglomeration  of  human  and  inhuman 


154  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

as  the  eyes  of  the  refined  seldom  look  upon.  .  .  . 
Was  this,  indeed,  the  pleasantest  place  to  work  in 
town?  .  .  . 

"  Bunching  and  wrapping,"  said  MacQueen. 
"  Filler's  fed  in  from  that  basin  on  top.  She  slips 
in  the  binder  —  machine  rolls  'em  together.  .  .  . 
Ye  can  see  here." 

They  halted  by  one  of  the  bunching-machines, 
and  saw  the  parts  dexterously  brought  together 
into  the  crude  semblance  of  the  product,  saw  the 
embryo  cigars  thrust  into  wooden  forms  which 
shape  them  yet  further  for  their  uses  in  a  world 
asmoke.  .  .  . 

"Jove!  Watch  how  her  hands  fly!"  said  Hugo. 
"Look,  Carlisle." 

Carlisle  looked  dutifully.  It  was  in  the  order  of 
things  that  she  should  bring  Hugo  to  the  Works, 
and  that,  being  there,  he  should  take  charge  of  her. 
But,  unconsciously,  she  soon  turned  her  back  to  the 
busy  machine,  impelled  by  the  mounting  interest  she 
felt  to  see  bunching,  not  in  detail,  but  in  the  large. 

Downstairs  the  workers  had  been  negroes ;  hert 
they  were  white  women. 

"Three  cents  a  hundred,"  said  MacQueen's 
rugged  voice. 

There  was  a  fine  brown  dust  in  the  air  of  the 
teeming  room,  and  the  sickening  smell  of  new 
tobacco.     Not   a  window  in  the  place  was  open, 


CIGAR-MAKING  155 

and  the  strong  steam  heat  seemed  almost  over- 
whelming. The  women  had  now  been  at  it  for  near 
nine  hours.  Damp,  streaked  faces,  for  the  most 
part  pale  and  somewhat  heavy,  turned  incessantly 
toward  the  large  wall-clock  at  one  end  of  the  room. 
Eyes  looked  sidewise  upon  the  elegant  visitors,  but 
then  the  flying  fingers  were  off  again,  for  time  is 
strictly  money  with  piecework.  How  could  they 
stand  being  so  crowded,  and  couldn't  they  have  any 
air? 

"Oh,  five  thousand  a  day  —  plenty  of  them." 
"Five  thousand!     How  do  they  do  it?" 
"We   had    a    girl    do    sixty-five   hundred.     She's 
quit.  .  .  .     Here's  one  down  here  ain't  bad." 

The  trio  moved  down  the  line  of  machines,  past 
soiled,  busy  backs.  Close  on  their  left  was  the 
double  row  of  tables,  where  the  hurrying  "wrappers" 
sat  like  sardines.  Cally  now  saw  that  these  were 
not  women  at  all,  but  young  girls ;  girls  mostly 
younger  than  herself,  some  very  much  younger. 
Only  they  seemed  to  be  girls  with  a  difference,  girls 
who  had  somehow  lost  their  girlhood.  Yet  some 
of  them  were  pretty,  beneath  dust  and  fatigue. 

"This  one  can  keep  three  wrappers  pretty  busy 
when  she's  feeling  good.  Ye'll  see  the  wrappers 
there,  in  a  minute." 

This  one  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  sallow  girl,  who  han- 
dled  her   machine  with    the   touch    of    a    master, 


156 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 


eliminating  every  superfluous  move  and  filling  a  form 
of  a  dozen  cheroots  quickly  enough  to  take  a  vis- 
itor's breath  away.  No  doubt  it  was  very  instruc- 
tive to  see  how  fast  cheroots  could  be  made. 

"How  do  they  keep  it  up  at  this  clip  nine  hours?" 

"Got  to  do  it,  or  others  will." 

"You  expect  each  machine  to  produce  so  much, 
I  suppose?" 

"Now,  here's  wrapping,"  said  MacQueen. 
"Hand  work,  you  see."  At  that  moment  Carlisle 
touched  Canning's  well-tailored  arm. 

"Let's  go.  .  .  .     It's  stifling  here." 

Taken  from  V.  V.s  Eyes,  by  Henry  Sydnor  Harrison, 
published  by  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


THE  STOCK-YARDS 

From  The  Jungle 

BY 

UPTON  SINCLAIR 

Hunters  and  fishers  kill  their  own  game  and  eat 
it  afterwards,  but  most  people  do  not  like  to  think 
of  what  happens  before  meat  comes  to  the  table. 
This  story  of  the  way  our  meat  is  prepared  is  taken 
from  a  novel  called  The  Jungle,  the  most  unpleas- 
ant things  being  omitted,  but  the  true  story  being 
given  of  beef  and  pork  with  their  by-products,  lard, 
and  violin  strings.  Upton  Beall  Sinclair,  the 
author,  is  a  socialist,  and  he  wrote  the  book  in  order 
to  awaken  interest  in  the  great  packing  houses  of 
Chicago,  and  to  induce  the  government  to  make 
an  inspection  of  the  precincts,  and  the  conditions 
which  surrounded  the  workers. 

For  adults,  only. 


(Z 


THE  STOCK-YARDS 

It  was  early  morning,  and  everything  was  at  its 
high  tide  of  activity.  A  steady  stream  of  employees 
was  pouring  through  the  gate  —  employees  of  the 
higher  sort,  at  this  hour,  clerks  and  stenographers 
and  such.  For  the  women  there  were  waiting  big 
two-horse  wagons,  which  set  off  at  a  gallop  as  fast 
as  they  were  filled.  In  the  distance  there  was  heard 
the  lowing  of  cattle,  a  sound  as  of  a  far-off  ocean 
calling.  The  visitors  followed  it.  They  crossed 
the  railroad  tracks,  and  then  on  each  side  of  the 
street  were  the  pens  full  of  cattle ;  they  would  have 
stopped  to  look  but  Jokubus  their  guide  hurried 
them  on,  to  where  there  was  a  stairway  and  a  raised 
gallery,  from  which  everything  could  be  seen. 
Here  they  stood,  staring,  and  breathless  with 
wonder. 

There  is  over  a  square  mile  of  space  in  the  yards, 
and  more  than  half  of  it  is  occupied  by  cattle-pens ; 
north  and  south,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  there 
stretches  a  sea  of  pens.  And  they  were  all  filled  — 
so  many  cattle  no  one  had  ever  dreamed  existed  in 
the  world.     Red   cattle,   black,  white,   and  yellow 

159 


160  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

cattle  ;  old  cattle  and  young  cattle ;  great  bellowing 
bulls  and  little  calves  not  an  hour  born ;  meek- 
eyed  milch  cows  and  fierce,  long-horned  Texas 
steers.  The  sound  of  them  here  was  as  of  all  barn- 
yards of  the  universe ;  and  as  for  counting  them 
—  it  would  have  taken  all  day  to  simply  count  the 
pens.  Here  there  ran  long  alleys,  blocked  at  inter- 
vals by  gates  ;  the  number  of  these  gates  was  twenty- 
five  thousand. 

Here  and  there  about  the  alleys  galloped  men 
upon  horseback,  booted,  and  carrying  long  whips ; 
they  were  very  busy,  calling  to  each  other,  and  to 
those  who  were  driving  the  cattle.  They  were 
drovers  and  stock-raisers,  who  had  come  from  far 
states,  and  brokers  and  commission  merchants,  and 
buyers  for  all  the  big  packing-houses.  Here  and 
there  they  would  stop  to  inspect  a  bunch  of  cattle, 
and  there  would  be  a  parley,  brief  and  business- 
like. The  buyer  would  nod  or  drop  his  whip,  and 
that  would  mean  a  bargain ;  and  he  would  note  it 
in  his  little  book,  along  with  hundreds  of  others  he 
had  made  that  morning.  Then  Jokobus  pointed 
out  the  place  where  the  cattle  were  driven  to  be 
weighed,  upon  a  great  scale  that  would  weigh  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds  at  once  and  record  it 
automatically.  All  along  the  east  side  of  the 
yards  ran  the  railroad  tracks,  into  which  the  cars 
were  run,  loaded  with  cattle.     All  night  long  this 


THE  STOCK-YARDS  161 

had  been  going  on,  and  now  the  pens  were  full ; 
by  to-night  they  would  all  be  empty,  and  the  same 
thing  would  be  done  again. 

There  were  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  track 
within  the  yards.  They  brought  about  ten  thou- 
sand head  of  cattle  every  day,  and  as  many  hogs, 
and  half  as  many  sheep  —  which  meant  some  eight 
or  ten  million  live  creatures  turned  into  food  every 
year.  One  stood  and  watched,  and  little  by  little 
caught  the  drift  of  the  tide,  as  it  set  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  packing-houses.  There  were  groups  of 
cattle  being  driven  to  the  chutes,  which  were  road- 
ways about  fifteen  feet  wide,  raised  high  above  the 
pens.  In  these  chutes  the  stream  of  animals  was 
continuous.  The  chutes  into  which  the  hogs  went 
climbed  high  up  —  to  the  very  top  of  the  buildings ; 
and  Jokobus  explained  that  the  hogs  went  up  by 
the  power  of  their  own  legs,  and  then  their  weight 
carried  them  back  through  all  the  processes  neces- 
sary to  make  them  into  pork.  "They  use  every- 
thing about  the  hog  except  the  squeal." 

The  mass  of  buildings  which  occupy  the  centre 
of  the  yards,  made  of  brick  and  stained  innumerable 
layers  of  "  Packing-town "  smoke,  were  painted  all 
over  with  advertising  signs,  "Imperial  Hams  and 
Bacon/'   "Dressed  Beef,"   "Excelsior  Sausages." 

The  visitors  climbed  a  long  series  of  stairways 
outside  of  one  of  the  buildings,  to  the  top  of  its 


162  THE  ROMANCE  OF  LABOR 

five  or  six  stories.  Here  was  the  chute,  with  its 
river  of  hogs,  all  patiently  toiling  upward. 

The  hog  killing  room  was  long  and  narrow. 
The  carcasses  were  taken  out  on  wheels  and  thrown 
into  a  huge  vat  of  boiling  water,  from  whence  they 
were  scooped  out  by  machinery,  and  then  fell  to 
the  second  floor,  passing  on  the  way  through  a 
wonderful  machine  with  numerous  scrapers,  which 
adjusted  themselves  to  the  size  and  shape  of  the 
animal,  and  sent  it  out  at  the  other  end  with  nearly 
all  its  bristles  removed.  It  was  then  again  strung 
up  by  machinery,  and  sent  upon  another  trolley 
ride ;  this  time  passing  between  two  lines  of  men, 
who  sat  upon  a  raised  platform,  each  doing  a  cer- 
tain thing  to  the  carcass  as  it  came  to  him.  There 
were  men  to  scrape  each  side  and  men  to  scrape  the 
back ;  there  were  men  to  clean  the  carcass  inside, 
to  trim  it  and  wash  it.  Looking  down  the  room, 
one  saw,  creeping  slowly,  a  line  of  dangling  hogs 
a  hundred  yards  in  length ;  and  for  every  yard 
there  was  a  man,  working  as  if  a  demon  was 
after  him.  At  the  end  of  this  hog's  progress 
every  inch  of  the  carcass  had  been  gone  over 
several  times ;  and  then  it  was  rolled  into  the 
chilling  room,  where  it  stayed  twenty-four  hours, 
and  where  a  stranger  might  lose  himself  in  a 
forest  of  freezing  hogs. 

Before  the  carcass  was  admitted  here,  however, 


THE    STOCK-YARDS  163 

it  had  to  pass  a  government  inspector,  who  sat  in 
the  doorway  and  felt  the  glands  for  tuberculosis. 

The  party  descended  to  the  next  floor,  where  the 
various  waste  materials  were  treated.  To  one 
room  came  all  the  scraps  to  be  "tanked,"  which 
meant  boiling  and  pumping  off  the  grease  to  make 
soap  and  lard ;  in  other  places  men  were  engaged 
in  cutting  up  the  carcasses  that  had  been  through 
the  chilling-rooms.  First  there  were  the  "split- 
ters," the  most  expert  workmen  in  the  plant.  Then 
there  were  "cleaver  men,"  great  giants  with  muscles 
of  iron ;  each  had  two  men  to  attend  him  —  to 
slide  the  half  carcass  in  front  of  him  on  the  table, 
and  hold  it  while  he  chopped  it,  and  then  turn  each 
piece  so  that  he  might  chop  it  once  more.  His 
cleaver  had  a  blade  about  two  feet  long,  and  he  never 
made  but  one  cut ;  he  made  it  so  neatly,  too,  that 
his  implement  did  not  smite  through  and  dull  itself 

—  there  was  just  enough  force  for  a  perfect  cut, 
and  no  more.  So  through  the  various  yawning 
holes  there  slipped  to  the  floor  below  —  to  one  room 
hams,  to  another  forequarters,  to  another  sides  of 
pork.  One  might  go  down  to  this  floor  and  see  the 
pickling-rooms,  where  the  hams  were  put  into  vats, 
and  the  great  smoke-rooms,  with  their  air-tight 
doors.     In    other    rooms    they    prepared    salt-pork 

—  there  were  whole  cellars  full  of  it,  built  up  in 
great  towers  to  the  ceiling.     In  yet   other  rooms 


164  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

they  were  putting  up  meat  in  boxes  and  barrels, 
and  wrapping  hams  and  bacon  in  oiled  paper,  seal- 
ing and  labelling  and  sewing  them.  From  the 
doors  of  these  rooms  went  men  with  loaded  trucks, 
to  the  platform  where  freight-cars  were  waiting 
to  be  filled ;  and  one  went  out  there  and  realized 
that  he  had  come  at  last  to  the  ground  floor  of  this 
enormous  building. 

Then  the  party  went  across  the  street  to  where 
they  did  the  killing  of  the  beef  —  where  every  hour 
they  turned  four  and  five  hundred  cattle  into  meat. 
All  this  work  was  done  on  one  floor ;  and  instead  of 
there  being  one  line  of  carcasses  which  moved  to 
the  workmen,  there  were  fifteen  or  twenty  lines,  and 
the  men  moved  from  one  to  another  of  these.  This 
made  a  scene  of  intense  activity,  a  picture  of  human 
power  wonderful  to  watch.  It  was  all  in  one  great 
room,  like  a  circus  amphitheatre,  with  a  gallery  for 
visitors  running  over  the  centre. 

Along  one  side  of  the  room  ran  a  narrow  gallery, 
a  few  feet  from  the  floor,  into  which  the  cattle  were 
driven.  The  instant  an  animal  had  been  killed, 
a  man  raised  a  lever,  and  the  side  of  the  pen  was 
raised,  and  the  animal  slid  out.  Here  a  man  put 
shackles  about  one  leg,  and  pressed  another  lever, 
and  the  body  was  lifted  into  the  air. 

The  manner  in  which  the  men  worked  was 
something  to  be  seen  and  never  forgotten.     They 


THE    STOCK-YARDS  165 

worked  with  furious  intensity,  literally  upon  the 
run  —  at  a  pace  with  which  there  is  nothing  to  be 
compared  except  a  foot-ball  game.  It  was  all 
highly  specialized  labor,  each  man  having  his  task 
to  do.  There  were  men  to  cut  it,  and  men  to  split 
it,  and  men  to  scrape  it  clean  inside.  There  were 
some  with  hose  which  threw  jets  of  boiling  water 
upon  it,  and  others  who  removed  the  feet  and  added 
the  final  touches.  In  the  end,  as  with  the  hogs, 
the  finished  beef  was  run  into  the  chilling-room, 
to  hang  its  appointed  time. 

The  visitors  were  taken  there  and  shown  them, 
all  neatly  hung  in  rows,  labelled  conspicuously 
with  the  tags  of  the  government  inspectors  —  and 
some,  which  had  been  killed  by  a  special  process, 
marked  the  sign  of  the  "kosher"  rabbi,  certifying 
that  it  was  fit  for  sale  to  the  orthodox.  And  then 
the  visitors  were  taken  to  the  other  parts  of  the  build- 
ing, to  see  what  became  of  each  particle  of  the  waste 
material  that  had  vanished  through  the  floor ; 
and  to  the  pickling-rooms,  and  the  salting-rooms,  the 
canning-rooms,  and  the  packing-rooms,  where  choice 
meat  was  prepared  for  shipping  in  refrigerator-cars, 
destined  to  be  eaten  in  all  the  four  corners  of  civiliz- 
ation. Afterwards  they  went  outside,  wandering 
about  among  the  mazes  of  buildings  in  which  was 
done  the  work  auxiliary  to  this  great  industry. 
There  was  scarcely  a  thing  needed  in  the  business  that 


166  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

the  Company  did  not  make  for  themselves.  There 
was  a  great  steam-power  plant  and  an  electricity 
plant.  There  was  a  barrel  factory,  and  a  boiler- 
repair  shop.  There  was  a  building  to  which  the 
grease  was  piped,  and  made  into  soap  and  lard ; 
and  there  was  a  factory  for  making  lard  cans, 
and  another  for  making  soap  boxes.  There  was  a 
building  in  which  the  bristles  were  cleaned  and 
dried,  for  the  making  of  hair  cushions  and  such 
things ;  there  was  a  building  where  the  skins  were 
dried  and  tanned,  there  was  another  where  heads 
and  feet  were  made  into  glue,  and  another  where 
bones  were  made  into  fertilizer.  No  tiniest  particle 
of  organic  matter  was  wasted.  Out  of  the  horns  of 
the  cattle  they  made  combs,  buttons,  hair-pins,  and 
imitation  ivory ;  out  of  the  shin  bones  and  other 
big  bones  they  cut  knife  and  tooth-brush  handles, 
and  mouth-pieces  for  pipes;  out  of  the  hoofs  they 
cut  hair-pins  and  buttons,  before  they  made  the 
rest  into  glue.  From  such  things  as  feet,  knuckles, 
hide  clippings,  and  sinews  came  such  strange  and 
unlikely  products  as  gelatin,  isinglass,  and  phos- 
phorus, bone-black,  shoe-blacking,  and  bone-oil. 
They  had  curled-hair  works  for  the  cattle  tails,  and 
" wool-pullery "  for  the  sheep  skins;  they  made 
pepsin  from  the  stomachs  of  the  pigs,  and  albumen 
from  the  blood,  and  violin  strings  from  the  entrails. 
When  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  with  a 


THE    STOCK-YARDS  167 

thing,  they  first  put  it  into  a  tank  and  got  out  all 
the  tallow  and  grease,  and  then  they  made  it  into 
fertilizer.  All  these  industries  were  gathered  into 
buildings  near  by,  connected  by  galleries  and 
railroads  with  the  main  establishment.  The  Com- 
pany employed  thirty  thousand  men ;  and  it  sup- 
ported directly  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
people  in  its  neighborhood,  and  indirectly  it  sup- 
ported half  a  million.  It  sent  its  products  to  every 
country  in  the  civilized  world,  and  it  furnished  food 
for  no  less  than  thirty  million  people ! 

Taken  from    The  Jungle,   by  Upton   Sinclair,   published 
by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company. 


i k  ii iftiiiri^ in  *u\W   a55iB*%^&5>i  *•*■ 


\s^gt^3i^sfSi 


THE  CATTLE   DRIVE 

From  Arizona  Nights 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

Stewart  Edward  White  was  born  in  Michigan, 
the  son  of  pioneers,  and  lived  until  sixteen  mainly 
in  lumber  camps  and  among  the  rivermen.  When 
the  time  came,  he  made  short  work  with  school  and 
university,  carried  his  Ph.B.  into  a  packing  house, 
then  upon  a  scramble  for  gold  into  the  Black  Hills, 
next  to  Columbia  for  literature  and  law,  thence 
to  a  publishing  house.  His  permanent  home  is  in 
California. 

In  Arizona  Nights  he  tells  how  cattle  are  handled 
by  men  and  horses  on  the  great  Western  ranges. 
Rough  men,  rough  manners,  and  customs  surround 
these  big-hearted  cowboys. 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


THE  CATTLE  DRIVE 

A  cry  awakened  me.  It  was  still  deep  night. 
The  moon  sailed  overhead,  the  stars  shone  unwaver- 
ing like  candles,  and  a  chill  breeze  wandered  in  from 
the  open  spaces  of  the  desert.  I  raised  myself  on 
my  elbow,  throwing  aside  the  blankets  and  the 
canvas  tarpaulin.  Forty  other  indistinct,  form- 
less bundles  on  the  ground  all  about  me  were  slug- 
gishly astir.  Four  figures  passed  and  repassed 
between  me  and  a  red  fire.  I  knew  them  for  the 
two  cooks  and  the  horse  wranglers.  One  of  the 
latter  was   grumbling. 

"Didn't  git  in  till  moon-up  last  night,"  he  growled. 
"Might  as  well  trade  my  bed  for  a  lantern  and  be 
done  with  it." 

Even  as  I  stretched  my  arms  and  shivered  a 
little,  the  two  wranglers  threw  down  their  tin 
plates  with  a  clatter,  mounted  horses  and  rode 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  thousand  acres  or  so 
known  as  the  pasture. 

I  pulled  on  my  clothes  hastily,  buckled  in  my 
buckskin  shirt,  and  dove  for  the  fire.  A  dozen 
others  were  before  me.  It  was  bitterly  cold.  In  the 
east  the  sky  had  paled  the  least  bit  in  the  world, 

m 


172  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

but  the  moon  and  stars  shone  on  bravely  and  un- 
diminished. A  band  of  coyotes  was  shrieking  des- 
perate blasphemies  against  the  new  day,  and  the 
stray  herd,  awakening,  was  beginning  to  bawl  and 
bellow. 

Two  crater-like  dutch  ovens,  filled  with  pieces 
of  fried  beef,  stood  near  the  fire ;  two  galvanized 
water  buckets,  brimming  with  soda  biscuits,  flanked 
them ;  two  tremendous  coffee  pots  stood  guard  at 
either  end.  We  picked  us  each  a  tin  cup  and  a  tin 
plate  from  the  box  at  the  rear  of  the  chuck  wagon ; 
helped  ourselves  from  a  dutch  oven,  a  pail,  and  a 
coffee  pot,  and  squatted  on  our  heels  as  close  to 
the  fire  as  possible.  Men  who  came  too  late  bor- 
rowed the  shovel,  scooped  up  some  coals,  and  so 
started  little  fires  of  their  own  about  which  new 
groups  formed. 

While  we  ate,  the  eastern  sky  lightened.  The 
mountains  under  the  dawn  looked  like  silhouettes 
cut  from  slate-coloured  paper;  those  in  the  west 
showed  faintly  luminous.  Objects  about  us  be- 
came dimly  visible.  We  could  make  out  the  wind- 
mill, and  the  adobe  of  the  ranch  houses,  and  the 
corrals.  The  cowboys  arose  one  by  one,  dropped 
their  plates  into  the  dishpan,  and  began  to  hunt 
out  their  ropes.  Everything  was  obscure  and 
mysterious  in  the  faint  gray  light.  I  watched 
Windy    Bill    near    his    tarpaulin.     He    stooped    to 


THE    CATTLE    DRIVE  173 

throw  over  the  canvas.  When  he  bent,  it  was  be- 
fore daylight ;  when  he  straightened  his  back, 
daylight  had  come.  It  was  just  like  that,  as  though 
some  one  had  reached  out  his  hand  to  turn  on  the 
illumination  of  the  world. 

The  eastern  mountains  were  fragile,  the  plain 
was  ethereal,  like  a  sea  of  liquid  gases.  From  the 
pasture  we  heard  the  shoutings  of  the  wranglers, 
and  made  out  a  cloud  of  dust.  In  a  moment  the 
first  of  the  remuda  came  into  view,  trotting  forward 
with  the  free  grace  of  the  unburdened  horse.  Others 
followed  in  procession :  those  near  sharp  and  well 
denned,  those  in  the  background  more  or  less  ob- 
scured by  the  dust,  now  appearing  plainly,  now 
fading  like  ghosts.  The  leader  turned  unhesitatingly 
into  the  corral.  After  him  poured  the  stream  of 
the  remuda  —  two  hundred  and  fifty  saddle  horses 
—  with  an  unceasing  thunder  of  hoofs. 

Immediately  the  cook-camp  was  deserted.  The 
cowboys  entered  the  corral.  The  horses  began  to 
circle  around  the  edge  of  the  enclosure  as  around 
the  circumference  of  a  circus  ring.  The  men, 
grouped  at  the  centre,  watched  keenly,  looking  for 
the  mounts  they  had  already  decided  on.  In  no 
time  each  had  recognized  his  choice,  and,  his  loop 
trailing,  was  walking  toward  that  part  of  the  re- 
volving circumference  where  his  pony  dodged. 
Some  few  whirled  the  loop,  but  most  cast  it  with 


174  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

a  quick  flip.  It  was  really  marvellous  to  observe 
the  accuracy  with  which  the  noose  would  fly,  past 
a  dozen  tossing  heads,  and  over  a  dozen  backs, 
to  settle  firmly  about  the  neck  of  an  animal  perhaps 
in  the  very  centre  of  the  group.  But  again,  if  the 
first  throw  failed,  it  was  interesting  to  see  how 
the  selected  pony  would  dodge,  double  back,  twist, 
turn,  and  hide  to  escape  a  second  cast.  And  it 
was  equally  interesting  to  observe  how  his  compan- 
ions would  help  him.  They  seemed  to  realize  that 
they  were  not  wanted,  and  would  push  themselves 
between  the  cowboy  and  his  intended  mount  with 
the  utmost  boldness.  In  the  thick  dust  that  in- 
stantly arose,  and  with  the  bewildering  thunder 
of  galloping,  the  flashing  change  of  grouping, 
the  rush  of  the  charging  animals,  recognition  alone 
would  seem  almost  impossible,  yet  in  an  incredibly 
short  time  each  had  his  mount,  and  the  others, 
under  convoy  of  the  wranglers,  were  meekly  wend- 
ing their  way  out  over  the  plain.  There,  until 
time  for  a  change,  of  horses,  they  would  graze  in  a 
loose  and  scattered  band,  requiring  scarcely  any 
supervision.  Escape  ?  Bless  you,  no,  that  thought 
was  the  last  in  their  minds. 

In  the  meantime  the  saddles  and  bridles  were 
adjusted.  Always  in  a  cowboy's  " string"  of  from 
six  to  ten  animals  the  boss  assigns  him  two  or  three 
broncos  to  break  in  to  the  cow  business.     There- 


THE    CATTLE    DRIVE  175 

fore,  each  morning  we  could  observe  a  half  dozen 
or  so  men  gingerly  leading  wicked  looking  little 
animals  out  to  the  sand  "to  take  the  pitch  out  of 
them."  One  small  black,  belonging  to  a  cowboy 
called  the  Judge,  used  more  than  to  fulfil  expec- 
tations of  a  good  time. 

"Go  to  him,  Judge!"  someone  would  always 
remark. 

"If  he  ain't  goin'  to  pitch,  I  ain't  goin'  to 
make  him,"  the  Judge  would  grin,  as  he  swung 
aboard. 

The  black  would  trot  off  quite  calmly  and  in  a 
most  matter  of  fact  way,  as  though  to  shame  all 
slanderers  of  his  lamb-like  character.  Then,  as  the 
bystanders  would  turn  away,  he  would  utter  a 
squeal,  throw  down  his  head,  and  go  at  it.  He 
was  a  very  hard  bucker,  and  made  some  really 
spectacular  jumps,  but  the  trick  on  which  he  based 
his  claims  to  originality  consisted  in  standing  on  his 
hind  legs  at  so  perilous  an  approach  to  the  perpen- 
dicular that  his  rider  would  conclude  he  was  about 
to  fall  backwards,  and  then  suddenly  springing 
forward  in  a  series  of  stiff-legged  bucks.  The  first 
manoeuvre  induced  the  rider  to  loosen  his  seat  in 
order  to  be  ready  to  jump  from  under,  and  the 
second  threw  him  before  he  could  regain  his  grip. 

"And  they  say  a  horse  don't  think!"  exclaimed 
an  admirer. 


176  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

But  as  these  were  broken  horses  —  save  the  mark ! 
—  the  show  was  all  over  after  each  had  had  his 
little  fling.  We  mounted  and  rode  away,  just  as 
the  mountain  peaks  to  the  west  caught  the  rays  of 
a  sun  we  should  not  enjoy  for  a  good  half  hour  yet. 

I  had  five  horses  in  my  string,  and  this  morning 
rode  "that  C  S  horse,  Brown  Jug."  Brown  Jug 
was  a  powerful  and  well-built  animal,  about  four- 
teen two  in  height,  and  possessed  of  a  vast  enthu- 
siasm for  cow-work.  As  the  morning  was  frosty, 
he  felt  good. 

At  the  gate  of  the  water  corral  we  separated  into 
two  groups.  The  smaller,  under  the  direction  of 
Jed  Parker,  was  to  drive  the  mesquite  in  the  wide 
flats ;  the  rest  of  us,  under  the  command  of  Homer, 
the  round-up  captain,  were  to  sweep  the  country 
even  as  far  as  the  base  of  the  foothills  near  Mount 
Graham.  Accordingly  we  put  our  horses  to  the 
full  gallop. 

Mile  after  mile  we  thundered  along  at  a  brisk 
rate  of  speed.  Sometimes  we  dodged  in  and  out 
among  the  mesquite  bushes,  alternately  separating 
and  coming  together  again ;  sometimes  we  swept 
over  grassy  plains  apparently  of  illimitable  extent ; 
sometimes  we  skipped  and  hopped  and  buck-jumped 
through  and  over  little  gullies,  barrancas,  and  other 
sorts  of  malpais  —  but  always  without  drawing 
rein.    The  men  rode  easily,  with  no  thought  to  the 


THE    CATTLE    DRIVE  Yll 

way  nor  care  for  the  footing.  The  air  came  back 
sharp  against  our  faces.  The  warm  blood  stirred 
by  the  rush  flowed  more  rapidly.  We  experienced 
a  delightful  glow.  Of  the  morning  cold  only  the  very 
tips  of  our  fingers,  and  the  ends  of  our  noses  retained 
a  remnant.  Already  the  sun  was  shining  low  and 
level  across  the  plains.  The  shadows  of  the  canyons 
modelled  the  hitherto  flat  surfaces  of  the  mountains. 

After  a  time  we  came  to  some  low  hills  helmeted 
with  the  outcrop  of  a  rock  escarpment.  Hitherto 
they  had  seemed  a  termination  of  Mount  Graham, 
but  now,  when  we  rode  around  them,  we  discovered 
them  to  be  separated  from  the  range  by  a  good  five 
miles  of  sloping  plain.  Later  we  looked  back  and 
would  have  sworn  them  part  of  the  Dos  Cabesas 
system,  did  we  not  know  them  to  be  at  least  eight 
miles'  distant  from  that  rocky  rampart.  It  is 
always  that  way  in  Arizona.  Spaces  develop  of 
whose  existence  you  had  not  the  slightest  intima- 
tion. Hidden  in  apparently  plane  surfaces  are 
valleys  and  prairies.  At  one  sweep  of  the  eye  you 
embrace  the  entire  area  of  an  eastern  State ;  but 
nevertheless  the  reality  as  you  explore  it  foot  by 
foot  proves  to  be  infinitely  more  than  the  vision 
has  promised. 

Beyond  the  hill  we  stopped.  Here  our  party 
divided  again,  half  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left. 
We  had   ridden,   up   to    this  time,   directly    away 


178  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

from  camp,  now  we  rode  a  circumference  of  which 
headquarters  was  the  centre.  The  country  was 
pleasantly  rolling  and  covered  with  grass.  Here 
and  there  were  clumps  of  soapweed.  Far  in  a 
remote  distance  lay  a  slender  dark  line  across  the 
plain.  This  we  knew  to  be  mesquite ;  and  once 
entered,  we  knew  it,  too,  would  seem  to  spread  out 
vastly.  And  then  this  grassy  slope,  on  which  we 
now  rode,  would  show  merely  as  an  insignificant 
streak  of  yellow.  It  is  also  like  that  in  Arizona. 
I  have  ridden  in  succession  through  grass  land, 
brush  land,  flower  land,  desert.  Each  in  turn 
seemed  entirely  to  fill  the  space  of  the  plains  between 
the  mountains. 

From  time  to  time  Homer  halted  us  and  de- 
tached a  man.  The  business  of  the  latter  was  then 
to  ride  directly  back  to  camp,  driving  all  cattle 
before  him.  Each  was  in  sight  of  his  right-  and 
left-hand  neighbor.  Thus  was  constructed  a  drag- 
net whose  meshes  contracted  as  home  was  neared. 

I  was  detached,  when  of  our  party  only  the  Cat- 
tleman and  Homer  remained.  They  would  take  the 
outside.  This  was  the  post  of  honor,  and  required 
the  hardest  riding,  for  as  soon  as  the  cattle  should 
realize  the  fact  of  their  pursuit,  they  would  attempt 
to  "break"  past  the  end  and  up  the  valley.  Brown 
Jug  and  I  congratulated  ourselves  on  an  exciting 
morning  in  prospect. 


THE    CATTLE    DRIVE  179 

Now,  wild  cattle  know  perfectly  well  what  a  drive 
means,  and  they  do  not  intend  to  get  into  a  round- 
up if  they  can  help  it.  Were  it  not  for  the  two  facts, 
that  they  are  afraid  of  a  mounted  man,  and  cannot 
run  quite  so  fast  as  a  horse,  I  do  not  know  how  the 
cattle  business  would  be  conducted.  As  soon  as  a 
band  of  them  caught  sight  of  any  one  of  us,  they 
curled  their  tails  and  away  they  went  at  a  long,  easy 
lope  that  a  domestic  cow  would  stare  at  in  wonder. 
This  was  all  very  well ;  in  fact  we  yelled  and  shrieked 
and  otherwise  uttered  cow-calls  to  keep  them  go- 
ing, to  "get  the  cattle  started,"  as  they  say.  But 
pretty  soon  a  little  band  of  the  many  scurrying  away 
before  our  thin  line,  began  to  bear  farther  and 
farther  to  the  east.  When  in  their  judgment  they 
should  have  gained  an  opening,  they  would  turn 
directly  back  and  make  a  dash  for  liberty.  Ac- 
cordingly the  nearest  cowboy  clapped  spurs  to  his 
horse  and  pursued  them. 

It  was  a  pretty  race.  The  cattle  ran  easily 
enough,  with  long,  springy  jumps  that  carried 
them  over  the  ground  faster  than  appearances 
would  lead  one  to  believe.  The  cow-pony,  his  nose 
stretched  out,  his  ears  slanted,  his  eyes  snapping 
with  joy  of  the  chase,  flew  fairly  "  belly  to  earth." 
The  rider  sat  slightly  forward,  with  the  cowboy's 
loose  seat.  A  whirl  of  dust,  strangely  insignificant 
against  the  immensity  of  a  desert  morning,   rose 


180  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

from  the  flying  group.  Now  they  disappeared  in  a 
ravine,  only  to  scramble  out  again  the  next  instant, 
pace  undiminished.  The  rider  merely  rose  slightly 
and  threw  up  his  elbows  to  relieve  the  jar  of  the 
rough  gully.  At  first  the  cattle  seemed  to  hold  their 
own,  but  soon  the  horse  began  to  gain.  In  a  short 
time  he  had  come  abreast  of  the  leading  animal. 
The  latter  stopped  short  with  a  snort,  dodged  back, 
and  set  out  at  right  angles  to  his  former  course. 
From  a  dead  run  the  pony  came  to  a  stand  in  two 
fierce  plunges,  doubled  like  a  shot,  and  was  off  on 
the  other  tack.  An  unaccustomed  rider  would  here 
have  lost  his  seat.  The  second  dash  was  short. 
With  a  final  shake  of  the  head,  the  steers  turned 
to  the  proper  course  in  the  direction  of  the  ranch. 
The  pony  dropped  unconcernedly  to  the  shuffling 
jog  of  habitual  progression. 

Far  away  stretched  the  arc  of  our  cordon.  The 
most  distant  rider  was  a  speck,  and  the  cattle  ahead 
of  him  were  like  maggots  endowed  with  a  smooth, 
swift  onward  motion.  As  yet  the  herd  had  not 
taken  form ;  it  was  still  too  widely  scattered.  Its 
units,  in  the  shape  of  small  bunches,  momently 
grew  in  numbers.  The  distant  plains  were  crawl- 
ing and  alive  with  minute  creatures  making  toward 
a  common  tiny  centre. 

Immediately  in  our  front  the  cattle  at  first  be- 
haved very  well.     Then  far  down  the  long  gentle: 


THE    CATTLE    DRIVE  181 

slope  I  saw  a  break  for  the  upper  valley.  The 
manikin  that  represented  Homer  at  once  became 
even  smaller  as  it  departed  in  pursuit.  The  Cattle- 
man moved  down  to  cover  Homer's  territory  until 
he  should  return,  and  I  in  turn  edged  farther  to  the 
right.  Then  another  break  from  another  bunch. 
The  Cattleman  rode  at  top  speed  to  head  it.  Before 
long  he  disappeared  in  the  distant  mesquite.  I  found 
myself  in  sole  charge  of  a  front  three  miles  long. 

The  nearest  cattle  were  some  distance  ahead,  and 
trotting  along  at  a  good  gait.  As  they  had  not  yet 
discovered  the  chance  left  open  by  unforeseen  cir- 
cumstance, I  descended  and  took  in  on  my  cinch 
while  yet  there  was  time.  Even  as  I  mounted,  an 
impatient  movement  on  the  part  of  experienced 
Brown  Jug  told  me  that  the  cattle  had  seen  their 
opportunity. 

I  gathered  the  reins  and  spoke  to  the  horse.  He 
needed  no  further  direction,  but  set  off  at  a  wide 
angle,  nicely  calculated,  to  intercept  the  truants. 
Brown  Jug  was  a  powerful  beast.  The  spring  of 
his  leap  was  as  whalebone.  The  yellow  earth  began 
to  stream  past  like  water.  Always  the  pace  in- 
creased with  a  growing  thunder  of  hoofs.  It  seemed 
that  nothing  could  turn  us  from  the  straight  line, 
nothing  check  the  headlong  momentum  of  our  rush. 
My  eyes  filled  with  tears  from  the  wind  of  our  going. 
Saddle  strings  streamed  behind.     Brown  Jug's  mane 


182  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

whipped  my  bridle  hand.  Dimly  I  was  conscious  of 
soapweed,  sacatone,  mesquite,  as  we  passed  them. 
They  were  abreast  and  gone  before  I  could  think 
of  them  or  how  they  were  to  be  dodged.  Two  ante- 
lope bounded  away  to  the  left ;  birds  rose  hastily 
from  the  grasses.  A  sudden  chirk,  chirk,  chirk,  rose 
all  about  me.  We  were  in  the  very  centre  of  a 
prairie-dog  town,  but  before  I  could  formulate  in 
my  mind  the  probabilities  of  holes  and  broken  legs, 
the  chirk,  chirk,  chirking  had  fallen  astern.  Brown 
Jug  had  skipped  and  dodged  successfully. 

We  were  approaching  the  cattle.  They  ran  stubr 
bornly  and  well,  evidently  unwilling  to  be  turned 
until  the  latest  possible  moment.  A  great  rage  at 
their  obstinacy  took  possession  of  us  both.  Abroad 
shallow  wash  crossed  our  way,  but  we  plunged 
through  its  rocks  and  boulders  recklessly,  angered 
at  even  the  slight  delay  they  necessitated.  The 
hard  land  on  the  other  side  we  greeted  with  joy. 
Brown  Jug  extended  himself  with  a  snort. 

Suddenly  a  jar  seemed  to  shake  my  very  head 
loose.  I  found  myself  staring  over  the  horse's  head 
directly  down  into  a  deep  and  precipitous  gully, 
the  edge  of  which  was  so  cunningly  concealed  by  the 
grasses  as  to  have  remained  invisible  to  my  blurred 
vision.  Brown  Jug,  however,  had  caught  sight  of 
it  at  the  last  instant,  and  had  executed  one  of  the 
wonderful  stops  possible  only  to  a  cow-pony. 


THE    CATTLE    DRIVE  183 

But  already  the  cattle  had  discovered  a  passage 
above;  and  were  scrambling  down  and  across. 
Brown  Jug  and  I,  at  more  sober  pace,  slid  off 
the  almost  perpendicular  bank,  and  out  the  other 
side. 

A  moment  later  we  had  headed  them.  They 
whirled,  and  without  the  necessity  of  any  sugges- 
tion on  my  part  Brown  Jug  turned  after  them,  and 
so  quickly  that  my  stirrup  actually  brushed  the 
ground.  After  that  we  were  masters.  We  chased 
the  cattle  far  enough  to  start  them  well  in  the 
proper  direction,  and  then  pulled  down  to  a  walk 
in  order  to  get  a  breath  of  air. 

But  now  we  noticed  another  band,  back  on  the 
ground  over  which  we  had  just  come,  doubling 
through  in  the  direction  of  Mount  Graham.  A  hard 
run  set  them  to  rights.  We  turned.  More  had 
poured  out  from  the  hills.  Bands  were  crossing 
everywhere,  ahead  and  behind.  Brown  Jug  and 
I  set  to  work. 

Being  an  indivisible  unit,  we  could  chase  only  one 
bunch  at  a  time ;  and,  while  we  were  after  one,  a 
half  dozen  others  would  be  taking  advantage  of 
our  preoccupation.  We  could  not  hold  our  own. 
Each  run  after  an  escaping  bunch  had  to  be  on  a 
longer  diagonal.  Gradually  we  were  forced  back, 
and  back,  and  back ;  but  still  we  managed  to  hold 
the  line  unbroken.     Never  shall  I  forget  the  dash 


184  THE    ROMANCE    OF   LABOR 

and  clatter  of  that  morning.  Neither  Brown  Jug 
nor  I  thought  for  a  moment  of  sparing  horseflesh, 
nor  of  picking  a  route.  We  made  the  shortest  line, 
and  paid  little  attention  to  anything  that  stood  in 
the  way.  A  very  fever  of  resistance  possessed  us. 
It  was  like  beating  against  a  head  wind,  or  fighting 
fire,  or  combating  in  any  other  way  any  of  the 
great  forces  of  nature.  We  were  quite  alone.  The 
Cattleman  and  Homer  had  vanished.  To  our  left 
the  men  were  fully  occupied  in  marshalling  the 
compact  brown  herds  that  had  gradually  massed 
—  for  these  antagonists  of  mine  were  merely  the 
outlying  remnants. 

I  suppose  Brown  Jug  must  have  run  nearly  twenty 
miles  with  only  one  check.  Then  we  chased  a  cow 
some  distance  and  into  the  dry  bed  of  a  stream, 
where  she  whirled  on  us  savagely.  By  luck  her 
horn  hit  only  the  leather  of  my  saddle  skirts,  so  we 
left  her;  for  when  a  cow  has  sense  enough  to  "get 
on  the  peck,"  there  is  no  driving  her  farther.  We 
gained  nothing,  and  had  to  give  ground,  but  we 
succeeded  in  holding  a  semblance  of  order,  so  that 
the  cattle  did  not  break  and  scatter  far  and  wide. 
The  sun  had  by  now  well  risen,  and  was  beginning 
to  shine  hot.  Brown  Jug  still  ran  gamely  and  dis- 
played as  much  interest  as  ever,  but  he  was  evidently 
tiring.  We  were  both  glad  to  see  Homer's  gray 
showing  in  the  fringe  of  mesquite. 


THE    CATTLE    DRIVE  185 

Together  we  soon  succeeded  in  throwing  the  cows 
into  the  main  herd.  And,  strangely  enough,  as 
soon  as  they  had  joined  a  compact  band  of  their 
fellows,  their  wildness  left  them  and,  convoyed  by 
outsiders,  they  set  themselves  to  plodding  energeti- 
cally toward  the  home  ranch. 

As  my  horse  was  somewhat  winded,  I  joined  the 
"drag"  at  the  rear.  Here  by  course  of  natural 
sifting  soon  accumulated  all  the  lazy,  gentle,  and 
sickly  cows,  and  the  small  calves.  The  difficulty 
now  was  to  prevent  them  from  lagging  and  drop- 
ping out.  To  that  end  we  indulged  in  a  great 
variety  of  the  picturesque  cow-calls  peculiar  to  the 
cowboy.  One  found  an  old  tin  can  which  by  the 
aid  of  a  few  pebbles  he  converted  into  a  very  effec- 
tive rattle. 

The  dust  rose  in  clouds  and  eddied  in  the  sun. 
We  slouched  easily  in  our  saddles.  The  cowboys 
compared  notes  as  to  the  brands  they  had  seen. 
Our  ponies  shuffled  along,  resting,  but  always  ready 
for  a  dash  in  chase  of  an  occasional  bull  calf  or  year- 
ling with  independent  ideas  of  its  own. 

Thus  we  passed  over  the  country,  down  the  long 
gentle  slope  to  the  "sink"  of  the  valley,  whence 
another  long  gentle  slope  ran  to  the  base  of  the 
other  ranges.  At  greater  or  lesser  distances  we 
caught  the  dust,  and  made  out  dimly  the  masses  of 
the  other  herds  collected  by  our  companions,  and  by 


186  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

the  party  under  Jed  Parker.  They  went  forward 
toward  the  common  centre,  with  a  slow  ruminative 
movement,  and  the  dust  they  raised  went  with 
them. 

Little  by  little  they  grew  plainer  to  us,  and  the 
home  ranch,  hitherto  merely  a  brown  shimmer  in  the 
distance,  began  to  take  on  definition  as  the  group  of 
buildings,  windmills,  and  corrals  we  knew.  Minia- 
ture horsemen  could  be  seen  galloping  forward  to 
the  open  white  plain  where  the  herd  would  be  held. 
Then  the  mesquite  enveloped  us ;  and  we  knew  little 
more,  save  the  anxiety  lest  we  overlook  laggards  in 
the  brush,  until  we  came  out  on  the  edge  of  that 
same  white  plain. 

Here  were  more  cattle,  thousands  of  them,  and 
billows  of  dust,  and  a  great  bellowing,  and  dim, 
mounted  figures  riding  and  shouting  ahead  of  the 
herd.  Soon  they  succeeded  in  turning  the  leaders 
back.  These  threw  into  confusion  those  that  fol- 
lowed. In  a  few  moments  the  cattle  had  stopped. 
A  cordon'of  horsemen  sat  at  equal  distances  holding 
them  in. 

"Pretty  good  haul,"  said  the  man  next  to  me; 
"a  good  five  thousand  head." 

Taken  from  Arizona  Nights,  by  Stewart  Edward  White, 
published  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Co. 


CATTLE   BRANDING 

From  Arizona  Nights 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

"Cattle  Branding"  is  an  almost  entire  chapter 
taken  from  Arizona  Nights,  by  Stewart  Edward 
White.  "The  story  of  the  West,"  says  Emerson 
Hough  in  his  book  on  the  cowboy,  "is  a  story  of 
heroes.  Cowboy,  cattleman,  cowpuncher,  it  mat- 
ters not  what  name  others  have  given  him,  he  has 
remained  —  himself.  From  the  half -tropic  to  the 
half-arctic  country  he  has  ridden,  his  type,  his  cos- 
tume, his  characteristics  practically  unchanged,  one 
of  the  most  dominant  and  self-sufficient  figures  in 
the  history  of  the  land.  If  we  study  him,  we  shall 
study  also  the  day  in  which  he  lived,  more  especially 
that  early  day  which  saw  the  opening  and  the  cli- 
max of  that  drama  of  commerce  —  the  cattle 
industry  of  the  West." 

For  young  people  or  adults. 


tp1 


CATTLE  BRANDING 

All  that  night  we  slept  like  sticks  of  wood.  No 
dreams  visited  us,  but  in  accordance  with  the  im- 
memorial habit  of  those  who  live  out  —  whether  in 
the  woods,  on  the  plains,  among  the  mountains, 
or  at  sea  —  once  during  the  night  each  of  us  rose  on 
his  elbow,  looked  about  him,  and  dropped  back  to 
sleep.  If  there  had  been  a  fire  to  replenish,  that 
would  have  been  the  moment  to  do  so ;  if  the  wind 
had  been  changing  and  the  seas  rising,  that  would 
have  been  the  time  to  cast  an  eye  aloft  for  indica- 
tions, to  feel  whether  the  anchor  cable  was  holding ; 
if  the  pack-horses  had  straggled  from  the  alpine 
meadows  under  the  snows,  this  would  have  been 
the  occasion  for  intent  listening  for  the  faintly 
tinkling  bell  so  that  next  day  one  would  know  in 
which  direction  to  look.  But  since  there  existed 
for  us  no  responsibility,  we  each  reported  dutifully 
at  the  roll-call  of  habit,  and  dropped  back  into  our 
blankets  with  a  grateful  sigh. 

I  remember  the  moon  sailing  a  good  gait  among 
apparently  stationary  cloudlets ;  I  recall  a  deep, 
black  shadow  lying  before  distant  silvery  mountains  ; 
I  glanced  over  the  stark,  motionless  canvases,  each 

189 


190  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

of  which  concealed  a  man;  the  air  trembled  with 
the  bellowing  of  cattle  in  the  corrals. 

Seemingly  but  a  moment  later  the  cook's  howl 
brought  me  to  consciousness  again.  A  clear,  lick- 
ing little  fire  danced  in  the  blackness.  Before  it 
moved  silhouettes  of  men  already  eating. 

I  piled  out  and  joined  the  group.  Homer  was 
busy  distributing  his  men  for  the  day.  Three  were 
to  care  for  the  remuda  ;  five  were  to  move  the  stray- 
herd  from  the  corrals  to  good  feed ;  three  branding 
crews  were  told  to  brand  the  calves  we  had  collected 
in  the  cut  of  the  afternoon  before.  That  took  up 
about  half  the  men.  The  rest  were  to  make  a  short 
drive  in  the  salt  grass.  I  joined  the  Cattleman, 
and  together  we  made  our  way  afoot  to  the  brand- 
ing pen. 

We  were  the  only  ones  who  did  go  afoot,  however, 
although  the  corrals  were  not  more  than  two  hun- 
dred yards  distant.  When  we  arrived  we  found 
the  string  of  ponies  standing  around  outside.  Be- 
tween the  upright  bars  of  greasewood  we  could 
see  the  cattle,  and  near  the  opposite  side  the  men 
building  a  fire  next  the  fence.  We  pushed  open  the 
wide  gate  and  entered.  The  three  ropers  sat  their 
horses,  idly  swinging  the  loops  of  their  ropes  back 
and  forth.  Three  others  brought  wood  and  arranged 
it  craftily  in  such  manner  as  to  get  best  draught  for 
heating  —  a  good  branding  fire  is  most  decidedly 


CATTLE    BRANDING  191 

a  work  of  art.  One  stood  waiting  for  them  to 
finish,  a  sheaf  of  long  J  H  stamping  irons  in  his 
hand.  All  the  rest  squatted  on  their  heels  along 
the  fence,  smoking  cigarettes  and  chatting  together. 
The  first  rays  of  the  sun  slanted  across  in  one  great 
sweep  from  the  remote  mountains. 

In  ten  minutes  Charley  pronounced  the  irons 
ready.  Homer,  Wooden,  and  old  California  John 
rode  in  among  the  cattle.  The  rest  of  the  men  arose 
and  stretched  -their  legs  and  advanced.  The  Cattle- 
man and  I  climbed  to  the  top  bar  of  the  gate,  where 
we  roosted,  he  with  his  tally-book  on  his  knee. 

Each  rider  swung  his  rope  above  his  head  with 
one  hand,  keeping  the  broad  loop  open  by  a  skilful 
turn  of  the  wrist  at  the  end  of  each  revolution.  In 
a  moment  Homer  leaned  forward  and  threw.  As 
the  loop  settled,  he  jerked  sharply  upward,  exactly 
as  one  would  strike  to  hook  a  big  fish.  This  tight- 
ened the  loop  and  prevented  it  from  slipping  off. 
Immediately,  and  without  waiting  to  ascertain  the 
result  of  the  manoeuvre,  the  horse  turned  and  began 
methodically,  without  undue  haste,  to  walk  toward 
the  branding  fire.  Homer  wrapped  the  rope  twice 
or  thrice  about  the  horn,  and  sat  over  in  one  stirrup 
to  avoid  the  tightened  line  and  to  preserve  the  bal- 
ance.    Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  the  calf. 

The  latter  had  been  caught  by  the  two  hind 
legs.    As  the  rope  tightened,  he  was  suddenly  upset; 


192  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

and  before  lie  could  realize  that  something  disagree- 
able was  happening,  he  was  sliding  majestically 
along  on  his  belly.  Behind  him  followed  his  anxious 
mother,  her  head  swinging  from  side  to  side. 

Near  the  fire  the  horse  stopped.  The  two  "  bull- 
doggers"  immediately  pounced  upon  the  victim. 
It  was  promptly  flopped  over  on  its  right  side. 
One  knelt  on  its  head  and  twisted  back  its  foreleg 
in  a  sort  of  hammer-lock ;  the  other  seized  one  hind 
foot,  pressed  his  boot  heel  against  the  other  hind 
leg  close  to  the  body,  and  sat  down  behind  the  ani- 
mal. Thus  the  calf  was  unable  to  struggle.  When 
once  you  have  had  the  wind  knocked  out  of  you,  or 
a  rib  or  two  broken,  you  cease  to  think  this  unnec- 
essarily rough.  Then  one  or  the  other  threw  off 
the  rope.  Homer  rode  away,  coiling  the  rope  as  he 
went. 

"Hot  iron!"  yelled  one  of  the  bull-doggers. 

"Marker!"  yelled  the  other. 

Immediately  two  men  ran  forward.  The  brander 
pressed  the  iron  smoothly  against  the  flank.  A 
smoke  and  the  smell  of  scorching  hair  arose.  Per- 
haps the  calf  blatted  a  little  as  the  heat  scorched. 
In  a  brief  moment  it  was  over.  The  brand  showed 
cherry,  which  is  the  proper  color  to  indicate  due 
peeling  and  a  successful  mark. 

In  the  meantime  the  marker  was  engaged  in  his 
work.     First,  with  a  sharp  knife  he  cut  off  slanting 


CATTLE    BRANDING  193 

the  upper  quarter  of  one  ear.  Then  he  nicked  out 
a  swallow-tail  in  the  other.  The  pieces  he  thrust 
into  his  pocket  in  order  that  at  the  completion  of 
the  work  he  could  thus  check  the  Cattleman's 
tally-board  as  to  the  number  of  calves  branded.1 
The  bull-dogger  let  go.  The  calf  sprang  up,  was 
appropriated  and  smelled  over  by  his  worried 
mother,  and  the  two  departed  into  the  herd  to  talk 
it  over. 

It  seems  to  me  that  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary 
twaddle  is  abroad  as  to  the  extreme  cruelty  of  brand- 
ing. Undoubtedly  it  is  to  some  extent  painful,  and 
could  some  other  method  of  ready  identification  be 
devised,  it  might  be  as  well  to  adopt  it  in  preference. 
But  in  the  circumstance  of  a  free  range,  thousands 
of  cattle,  and  hundreds  of  owners,  any  other  method 
is  out  of  the  question.  I  remember  a  New  England 
movement  looking  toward  small  brass  tags  to  be 
hung  from  the  ear.  Inextinguishable  laughter  fol- 
lowed the  spread  of  this  doctrine  through  Arizona. 
Imagine  a  puncher  descending  to  examine  politely 
the  ear-tags  of  wild  cattle  on  the  open  range  or  in 
a  round-up. 

But,  as  I  have  intimated,  even  the  inevitable 
branding  and  ear-marking  are  not  so  painful  as  one 
might   suppose.     The   scorching  hardly   penetrates 

1  For  the  benefit  of  the  squeamish  it  might  be  well  to  state  that  the 
fragments  of  the  ears  were  cartilaginous,  and  therefore  not  bloody. 


194  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

below  the  outer  tough  skin  —  only  enough  to  kill 
the  roots  of  the  hair  —  besides  which  it  must  be 
remembered  that  cattle  are  not  so  sensitive  as  the 
higher  nervous  organisms.  A  calf  usually  bellows 
when  the  iron  bites,  but  as  soon  as  released  he  al- 
most invariably  goes  to  feeding  or  to  looking  idly 
about.  Indeed,  I  have  never  seen  one  even  take 
the  trouble  to  lick  his  wounds,  which  is  certainly 
not  true  in  the  case  of  the  injuries  they  inflict  on 
each  other  in  fighting.  Besides  which,  it  happens 
but  once  in  a  lifetime,  and  is  over  in  ten  seconds ; 
a  comfort  denied  to  those  of  us  who  have  our  teeth 
filled. 

In  the  meantime  two  other  calves  had  been  roped 
by  the  other  two  men.  One  of  the  little  animals 
was  but  a  few  months  old,  so  the  rider  did  not 
bother  with  its  hind  legs,  but  tossed  his  loop  over 
its  neck.  Naturally,  when  things  tightened  up, 
Mr.  Calf  entered  his  objections,  which  took  the 
form  of  most  vigorous  bawlings,  and  the  most 
comical  bucking,  pitching,  cavorting,  and  bounding 
in  the  air.  Mr.  Frost's  bull-calf  alone  in  pictorial 
history  shows  the  attitudes.  And  then,  of  course, 
there  was  the  gorgeous  contrast  between  all  this 
frantic  and  uncomprehending  excitement  and  the 
absolute  matter-of-fact  imperturbability  of  horse 
and  rider.  Once  at  the  fire,  one  of  the  men  seized 
the  tightened  rope  in  one  hand,  reached  well  over 


CATTLE    BRANDING  195 

the  animal's  back  to  get  a  slack  of  the  loose  hide 
next  the  belly,  lifted  strongly,  and  tripped.  This 
is  called  "  bull-dogging."  As  he  knew  his  business, 
and  as  the  calf  was  a  small  one,  the  little  beast 
went  over  promptly,  hit  the  ground  with  a  whack, 
and  was  pounced  upon  and  held. 

Such  good  luck  did  not  always  follow,  however. 
An  occasional  and  exceedingly  husky  bull  yearling 
declined  to  be  upset  in  any  such  manner.  He 
would  catch  himself  on  one  foot,  scramble  vigor- 
ously, and  end  by  struggling  back  to  the  upright. 
Then  ten  to  one  he  made  a  dash  to  get  away.  In 
such  case  he  was  generally  snubbed  up  short  enough 
at  the  end  of  the  rope ;  but  once  or  twice  he  suc- 
ceeded in  running  around  a  group  absorbed  in 
branding.  You  can  imagine  what  happened  next. 
The  rope,  attached  at  one  end  to  a  conscientious 
and  immovable  horse  and  at  the  other  to  a  reckless 
and  vigorous  little  bull,  swept  its  taut  and  destroy- 
ing way  about  mid-knee  high  across  that  group. 
The  brander  and  marker,  who  were  standing, 
promptly  sat  down  hard  ;  the  bull-doggers,  who  were 
sitting,  immediately  turned  several  most  capable 
somersaults ;  the  other  calf  arose  and  inextricably 
entangled  his  rope  with  that  of  his  accomplice. 
Hot  irons,  hot  language,  and  dust  filled  the  air. 

Another  method,  and  one  requiring  slightly  more 
knack,  is  to  grasp  the  animal's  tail  and  throw  it  by 


196  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

a  quick  jerk  across  the  pressure  of  the  rope.  This 
is  productive  of  some  fun  if  it  fails. 

By  now  the  branding  was  in  full  swing.  The 
three  horses  came  and  went  phlegmatically.  When 
the  nooses  fell,  they  turned  and  walked  toward  the 
fire  as  a  matter  of  course.  Rarely  did  the  cast  fail. 
Men  ran  to  and  fro  busy  and  intent.  Sometimes 
three  or  four  calves  were  on  the  ground  at  once. 
Cries  arose  in  a  confusion:  "Marker!''  "Hot 
iron!"  "Tally  one!"  Dust  eddied  and  dissipated-. 
Behind  all  were  clear  sunlight  and  the  organ  roll  of 
the  cattle  bellowing. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  morning  the  bull-dog- 
gers began  to  get  a  little  tired. 

"No  more  necked  calves,"  they  announced. 
"Catch  'em  by  the  hind  legs,  or  bull-dog  'em  your- 
self." 

And  that  went.  Once  in  a  while  the  rider,  lazy, 
or  careless,  or  bothered  by  the  press  of  numbers, 
dragged  up  a  victim  caught  by  the  neck.  The  bull- 
doggers  flatly  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
it.  An  obvious  way  out  would  have  been  to  flip  off 
the  loop  and  try  again ;  but  of  course  that  would 
have  amounted  to  a  confession  of  wrong. 

"You  fellows  drive  me  plumb  weary,"  remarked 
the  rider,  slowly  dismounting.  "A  little  bit  of  a 
calf  like  that !  ^Vhat  you  all  need  is  a  nigger  to  cut 
up  your  food  for  you  !" 


CATTLE    BRANDING  197 

Then  he  would  spit  on  his  hands,  and  go  at  it 
alone.  If  luck  attended  his  first  effort,  his  sarcasm 
was  profound. 

" There's  yore  little  calf,"  said  he.  "Would  you 
like  to  have  me  tote  it  to  you,  or  do  you  reckon  you 
could  toddle  this  far  with  yore  little  old  iron?" 

But  if  the  calf  gave  much  trouble,  then  all  work 
ceased  while  the  unfortunate  puncher  wrestled 
it  down. 

Toward  noon  the  work  slacked.  Unbranded 
calves  were  scarce.  Sometimes  the  men  rode  here 
and  there  for  a  minute  or  so  before  their  eyes  fell 
on  a  pair  of  uncropped  ears.  Finally  Homer  rode 
over  to  the  Cattleman  and  reported  the  branding 
finished.  The  latter  counted  the  marks  in  his 
tally-book. 

"One  hundred  and  seventy-six,"  he  announced. 

The  markers,  squatted  on  their  heels,  told  over 
the  bits  of  ears  they  had  saved.  The  total  amounted 
to  but  a  hundred  and  seventy-five.  Everybody 
went  to  searching  for  the  missing  bit.  It  was  not 
forthcoming.  Finally  Wooden  discovered  it  in  his 
hip  pocket. 

"Felt  her  thar  all  the  time,"  said  he,  "but 
thought  it  must  shorely  be  a  chaw  of  tobacco." 

This  matter  satisfactorily  adjusted,  the  men  all 
ran  for  their  ponies.  They  had  been  doing  a  wres- 
tler's heavy  work  all  the  morning,  but  did  not  seem 


198 


THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 


to  be  tired.  I  saw  once  in  some  crank  physical  cul- 
ture periodical  that  a  cowboy's  life  was  physically 
ill-balanced,  like  an  oarsman's,  in  that  it  exercised 
only  certain  muscles  of  the  body.  The  writer  should 
be  turned  loose  in  a  branding  corral. 

Through  the  wide  gates  the  cattle  were  urged 
out  to  the  open  plain.  There  they  were  held  for 
over  an  hour  while  the  cows  wandered  about  look- 
ing for  their  lost  progeny.  A  cow  knows  her  calf 
by  scent  and  sound,  not  by  sight.  Therefore  the 
noise  was  deafening,   and  the  motion  incessant. 

Finally  the  last  and  most  foolish  cow  found  the 
last  and  most  foolish  calf.  We  turned  the  herd 
loose  to  hunt  water  and  grass  at  its  own  pleasure, 
and  went  slowly  back  to  chuck. 

Taken  from  Arizona  Nights,  by  Stewart  Edward  White, 
published  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Co. 


SHEEP-SHEARING 

From  Ramona 

BY 
HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON 

Ramona  was  a  Spanish  girl  of  wealth,  who  lived 
on  a  sheep  ranch  in  Southern  California  during  the 
picturesque  days  of  the  Franciscan  Missions.  She 
lived  with  an  old  Spanish  Sefiora  who,  though  seem- 
ingly quiet,  retiring,  and  religious,  ruled  her  ranch 
with  a  rod  of  iron.  Ramona  sacrificed  riches  and 
position  for  love  of  an  Indian  who  suffered  martyr- 
dom with  his  race. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson  (H.  H.),  who  wrote  the  story, 
was  a  novelist  and  poetess,  born  in  New  England. 
Appointed  by  the  government  to  report  on  the 
Ponca  Indians  of  Southern  California,  she  could 
say  with  authority,  "every  word  of  the  Indian  his- 
tory in  Ramona  is  literally  true." 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


SHEEP-SHEARING 

Juan  Canito  wanted  the  shearing  to  begin. 
"There  are  plenty  of  sheep  on  the  place  to  begin 
with/'  he  said  one  morning,  "at  least  a  thousand. " 
Had  not  he,  Juan  Canito,  stood  at  the  packing-bag, 
and  handled  the  wool,  when  Senor  Felipe  was  a 
boy?  Why  could  he  not  do  it  again?  The  Sefiora 
did  not  realize  how  time  was  going ;  there  would 
be  no  shearers  to  be  hired  presently,  since  the 
Sefiora  was  determined  to  have  none  but  Indians. 
Of  course,  if  she  would  employ  Mexicans,  as  all 
the  other  ranches  in  the  valley  did,  it  would  be 
different ;  but  she  was  resolved  upon  having  In- 
dians — 

"About  the  Indians,  Juan,"  the  Sefiora  replied 
with  exquisite  gentleness;  "did  not  the  Senor 
Felipe  tell  you  that  he  had  positively  engaged  the 
same  band  of  shearers  we  had  last  autumn,  Alles- 
sandro's  band  from  Temecula?  They  will  wait 
till  we  are  ready  for  them.  Senor  Felipe  will 
send  a  messenger  for  them.  He  thinks  them  the 
best  shearers  in  the  country.  Will  the  crop  be 
good  ?     General  Moreno  used  to  say  that  you  could 

201 


202  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

reckon  up  the  wool-crop  to  a  pound,  while  it  was  on 
the  sheep's  backs." 

"Yes,  Sefiora,"  answered  the  mollified  Juan; 
"the  poor  beasts  look  wonderful  well  considering 
the  scant  feed  they  have  had  all  winter.  We'll 
not  come  many  pounds  short  of  our  last  year's 
crop,  if  any." 

He  stood  watching  her  as  she  walked  away,  at 
her  usual  slow  pace,  her  head  bent  slightly  forward. 
Juan's  eyes  followed  her.  "If  they'll  take  one  to 
heaven,  the  Sefiora'll  go  by  the  straight  road,  that's 
sure." 

"A  plague  on  that  Luigo  for  not  being  back 
here.  He's  the  best  hand  I  have  to  cut  the  willow 
boughs  for  the  roofs,"  he  said.  "He  knows  the 
difference  between  one  year's  growth  and  an- 
other's, I'll  say  that  much  for  him,  spite  of  the 
silly  dreaming  head  he's  got  on  his  shoulders." 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  one  of  those  mid- 
summer days  of  which  Southern  California  has  so 
many  in  the  spring. 

The  almonds  had  bloomed  and  the  blossoms 
fallen;  the  apricots  also,  and  the  peaches  and 
pears ;  on  all  the  orchards  of  these  fruits  had  come 
a  filmy  tint  of  green,  so  light  it  was  hardly  more 
than   a   shadow   on   the   gray.     The   willows   were 


SHEEP-SHEA  RING  203 

vivid  light  green,  and  the  orange  groves  dark  and 
glossy  like  laurel.  The  billowy  hills  on  either  side 
the  valley  were  covered  with  verdure  and  bloom 
—  myriads  of  low  blossoming  plants,  so  close  to  the 
earth  that  their  tints  lapped  and  overlapped  on  each 
other,  and  on  the  green  of  the  grass,  as  feathers  in 
fine  plumage  overlap  each  other  and  blend  into  a 
changeful  color. 

The  wild  mustard  in  Southern  California  is  like 
that  spoken  of  in  the  New  Testament,  in  the  branches 
of  which  the  birds  of  the  air  may  rest.  Coming 
up  out  of  the  earth,  so  slender  a  stem  that  dozens 
can  find  starting  place  in  an  inch,  it  darts  up,  a 
slender  straight  shoot,  five,  ten,  twenty  feet,  with 
hundreds  of  fine  feathery  branches  locking  and 
interlocking  with  all  the  other  hundreds  around  it, 
till  it  is  an  inextricable  network  of  lace.  Then  it 
bursts  into  yellow  bloom  still  finer,  more  feathery 
and  lace-like.  The  stems  are  so  infinitesimally 
small,  and  of  so  dark  a  green,  that  at  a  short 
distance  they  do  not  show,  and  the  cloud  of 
blossom  seems  floating  in  the  air;  at  times  it 
looks  like  golden  dust.  With  a  clear  blue  sky 
behind  it,  as  it  is  often  seen,  it  looks  like  a  golden 
snow-storm. 

Looking  back,  Juan  Canito  called:  "What  are 
you  gaping  at  there,  you  Allessandro !  Hurry, 
now,   and   get  your  men  to  work.     After  waiting 


204  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

till  near  midsummer  for  this  shearing,  we'll  make 
as  quick  work  of  it  as  we  can.  Have  you  got  your 
best  shearers  here?" 

"Ay,  that  I  have,"  answered  Allessandro ;  "not 
a  man  of  them  but  can  shear  his  hundred  a  day. 
There  is  not  such  a  band  as  ours  in  all  San  Diego 
County ;  and  we  don't  turn  out  the  sheep  all  bleed- 
ing, either ;  you'll  see  scarce  a  scratch  on  all  their 
sides." 

"Humph!"  retorted  Juan  Can.  "'Tis  a  poor 
shearer,  indeed,  that  draws  blood  to  speak  of.  I've 
sheared  many  a  thousand  sheep  in  my  day,  and 
never  a  red  stain  on  the  shears.  But  the  Mexicans 
have  always  been  famed  for  good  shearers." 

Juan's  invidious  emphasis  on  the  word  "Mexi- 
cans" did  not  escape  Allessandro.  "And  we  In- 
dians also,"  he  answered,  betraying  no  annoyance. 

At  the  sheep-shearing  sheds  and  pens  all  was 
stir  and  bustle.  The  shearing  shed  was  a  huge 
caricature  of  a  summer-house,  —  a  long,  narrow 
structure,  sixty  feet  long  by  twenty  or  thirty  wide, 
all  roof  and  pillars ;  no  walls ;  the  supports,  slender 
rough  posts,  as  far  apart  as  was  safe,  for  the  up- 
holding the  roof,  which  was  of  rough  planks  loosely 
laid  from  beam  to  beam.  On  three  sides  of  this 
were  the  sheep-pens  filled  with  sheep  and  lambs. 

A  few  rods  away  stood  the  booths  in  which  the 
shearers'  food  was  to  be  cooked  and  the  shearers 


SHEEP-SHEARING  205 

fed.  These  were  mere  temporary  affairs,  roofed 
only  by  willow  boughs  with  the  leaves  left  on. 
Near  these,  the  Indians  had  already  arranged  their 
camp.  A  hut  or  two  of  green  boughs  had  been 
built,  but  for  the  most  part  they  would  sleep  rolled 
up  in  their  blankets  on  the  ground.  There  was  a 
brisk  wind,  and  the  gay-colored  wings  of  the  wind- 
mill blew  furiously  round,  pumping  out  into  the 
tank  below  a  stream  of  water  so  swift  and  strong, 
that  as  the  men  crowded  around,  wetting  and 
sharpening  their  knives,  they  got  well  spattered, 
and  had  much  merriment,  pushing  and  elbowing 
each  other  in  the  spray. 

A  high  four-posted  frame  stood  close  to  the  shed  ; 
in  this,  swung  from  the  four  corners,  hung  one  of  the 
great  sacking  bags  in  which  the  fleeces  were  to  be 
packed.  A  big  pile  of  these  bags  lay  on  the  ground 
at  the  foot  of  the  posts.  Juan  Can  eyed  them  with 
a  chuckle.  "  We'll  fill  more  than  those  before  night, 
Senor  Filipe,"  he  said.  He  was  in  his  element, 
Juan  Can,  at  shearing  times.  Then  came  his  re- 
ward for  the  somewhat  monotonous  and  stupid 
year's  work.  The  world  held  no  better  feast  for 
his  eyes  than  the  sight  of  a  long  row  of  big  bales  of 
fleece,  tied,  stamped  with  the  Moreno  brand, 
ready  to  be  drawn  away  to  the  mills.  "Now,  there 
is  something  substantial,"  he  thought;  "no  chance 
of  wool  going  amiss  in  market !" 


206  THE    ROMANCE   OF  LABOR 

If  the  year's  crop  were  good,  Juan's  happiness 
was  assured  for  the  next  six  months.  If  it  proved 
poor,  he  turned  devout  immediately,  and  spent 
the  next  six  months  calling  on  the  saints  for  better 
luck,  and  redoubling  his  exertions  with  the  sheep. 

On  one  of  the  posts  of  the  shed  short  projecting 
slats  were  nailed,  like  half-rounds  of  a  ladder. 
Lightly  as  a  rope-walker  Felipe  ran  up  these,  to  the 
roof,  and  took  his  stand  there,  ready  to  take  the 
fleeces  and  pack  them  in  the  bag  as  fast  as  they 
should  be  tossed  up  from  below.  Luigo,  with  a  big 
leather  wallet  fastened  in  front  of  him,  filled  with 
five  cent  pieces,  took  his  stand  in  the  centre  of  the 
shed.  The  thirty  shearers,  running  into  the  nearest 
pen,  dragged  each  his  sheep  into  the  shed,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  had  the  creature  between  his 
knees,  helpless,  immovable,  and  the  sharp  sound  of 
the  shears  set  in.  The  sheep-shearing  had  begun. 
No  rest  now.  Not  a  second's  silence  from  the 
bleating,  baa-ing,  opening  and  shutting,  clicking, 
sharpening  of  shears,  flying  of  fleeces  through  the 
air  to  the  roof,  pressing  and  stamping  them  down  in 
the  bales ;  not  a  second's  intermission,  except  the 
hour  of  rest  at  noon,  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  till  the 
whole  eight  thousand  of  the  Senora  Moreno's  sheep 
were  shorn.  It  was  a  dramatic  spectacle.  As 
soon  as  a  sheep  was  shorn,  the  shearer  ran  with  the 
fleece  in  his  hand  to  Luigo,  threw  it  down  on  a 


SHEEP-SHEARING  207 

table,  received  his  five  cent  piece,  dropped  it  in  his 
pocket,  dragged  out  another  sheep,  and  in  less  than 
five  minutes  was  back  again  with  a  second  fleece. 
The  shorn  sheep,  released,  bounded  off  into  another 
pen,  where,  light  in  the  head  no  doubt  from  being 
three  to  five  pounds  lighter  on  their  legs,  they 
trotted  around  bewilderedly  for  a  moment,  then 
flung  up  their  heels  and  capered  for  joy. 

It  was  warm  work.  The  dust  from  the  fleeces 
and  the  trampling  feet  filled  the  air.  As  the  sun 
rose  higher  in  the  sky  the  sweat  poured  off  the  men's 
faces ;  and  Felipe,  standing  without  shelter  on  the 
roof,  worked  on,  though  his  face  was  purple,  and 
his  head  throbbing.  After  the  bag  of  fleeces  is 
half  full,  the  packer  stands  in  it,  jumping  with  his 
full  weight  on  the  wool,  as  he  throws  in  the  fleeces, 
to  compress  them  as  much  as  possible. 


The  shearing  had  been  over  and  done  by  ten  in 
the  morning,  it  was  now  near  sunset.  The  eco- 
nomical Juan  Can,  finding  that  the  work  would  be 
done  by  ten,  and  supposing  they  would  be  off  be- 
fore noon,  had  ordered  only  two  sheep  killed  for 
them  the  day  before,  and  the  mutton  was  all 
gone,  and  old  Marda,  getting  her  cue  from  Juan, 
had  cooked  no  more  frijoles  than  the  family 
needed     for    themselves ;     so    the    poor    shearers 


208  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

had  indeed  had  a  sorry  day  of  it.  The  blankets 
were  rolled  up,  the  saddles  collected,  the  ponies 
caught  and  driven  to  the  shed,  when  Ramona 
and  Margarita  were  seen  coming  at  full  speed  from 
the  house. 

"Allessandro  !  Allessandro  ! "  cried  Ramona,  out 
of  breath,  "I  have  only  just  now  heard  that  the 
men  have  had  no  dinner  to-day.  I  am  ashamed. 
Everybody  thought  they  were  going  away  this 
morning.  Now  they  must  have  a  good  supper 
before  they  go.  It  is  already  cooking.  Tell  them 
to  wait." 

Those  of  the  men  who  understood  the  Spanish 
language,  in  which  Ramona  spoke,  translated  it  to 
those  who  did  not,  and  there  was  a  cordial  outburst 
of  thanks  to  the  Sefiorita  from  all  lips.  All  were 
only  too  ready  to  wait  for  the  supper. 

"  Supper  will  be  ready  in  an  hour;"  said  Ramona. 
" Please  let  them  stay;  one  hour  can't  make  any 
difference." 

Allessandro  smiled.  "It  will  take  nearer  two, 
Sefiorita,  before  they  are  off,"  he  said;  "but  it 
shall  be  as  you  wish,  and  many  thanks  to  you, 
Sefiorita,  for  thinking  of  it." 

"Oh,  I  did  not  think  of  it  myself,"  said  Ramona. 
"It  was  Margarita,  here,  who  came  and  told  me. 
She  knew  we  would  be  ashamed  to  have  the  shearers 
go  away  hungry.     I  am  afraid  they  are  very  hungry 


SHEEP-  SHEARING  209 

indeed,"  she  added  ruefully.  "It  must  be  dreadful 
to  go  a  whole  day  without  anything  to  eat.  They 
had  their  breakfast  soon  after  sunrise,  did  they 
not?"' 

"Yes,  Sefiorita,"  answered  Allessandro,  "but 
that  is  not  long ;  one  can  very  well  do  without  food 
for  one  day.  I  often  do.  Will  the  Sefiorita  let 
me  help,  too?     Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  cried,  "there  is  not.  Yes,  there  is, 
too.  You  can  help  carry  the  things  down  to  the 
booth.  You  and  your  men  might  carry  all  the 
supper  over.     I'll  call  you  when  we  are  ready." 

The  men  sat  down  in  a  group  and  waited  con- 
tentedly, smoking,  chatting,  and  laughing.  Al- 
lessandro walked  up  and  down  between  the  kitchen 
and  the  shed.  He  could  hear  the  sounds  of  rat- 
tling dishes,  jingling  spoons,  frying,  pouring  water. 
Savory  smells  began  to  be  wafted  out.  Evidently 
old  Marda  meant  to  atone  for  the  shortcoming  of 
the  noon. 

Juan  Can  also  heard  and  smelled  what  was  going 
on.  "May  the  fiends  get  me,"  he  growled,  "if 
that  wasteful  old  hussy  isn't  getting  up  a  feast  for 
those  Indians !  There's  mutton  and  onions,  and 
peppers  stewing,  and  potatoes,  and  God  knows 
what  else.  Well,  they'll  have  to  say  they  were 
well  feasted  at  the  Moreno's  —  that's  one  comfort. 
San  Jose!     but  it  smells  well!" 


210 


THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 


"Run,  Margarita/'  Ramona  said.  "All  is  ready 
now ;  see  if  Allessandro  is  in  sight.  Call  him  to 
come  and  take  the  things." 

"Allessandro  !     Allessandro  !  the  supper  is  ready." 

Ramona  stood  in  the  doorway  holding  in  her 
arms  a  huge  smoking  platter  of  the  stew;  "Take 
care/'  she  said  as  she  gave  it  into  his  hands,  "it 
is  very  full.  The  gravy  will  run  over  if  you  are 
not  careful.     You  are  not  used  to  waiting  on  table." 

The  men  ate  fast  and  greedily,  and  it  was  not,  after 
all,  more  than  an  hour,  when  full  fed  and  happy, 
they  were  mounting  their  horses  to  set  off. 

Taken  from  Ramona,  by  Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  published 
by  Little,  Brown  and  Co. 


LOGGING 

From  The  Riverman 
BY 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

Did  you  ever  ride  on  a  log  down  a  river  on  the 
spring  freshet?  It  is  exciting!  The  Riverman 
tells  how  it  is  done,  and  the  story  is  so  well  told 
that  we  experience  the  thrill,  the  whirl,  and  the  cold 
bath  which  attend  the  rivermen  as  they  ride  the 
logs  from  the  woods  where  they  were  cut  in  the 
winter,  down  the  river,  to  the  saw  mills,  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  them,  jamming  and  piling  end  on 
end.  We  see  the  wonderful  country  through  which 
the  river  flows,  follow  with  the  grub  boat  and  camp 
by  the  open  fires  at  night.  Stewart  Edward  White 
wrote  the  story  from  his  own  experiences  among 
the  lumbermen  of  Michigan. 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


w 


Fj 


LOGGING 

A  lumberman,  named  Orde,  had  taken  the  con- 
tract to  break  the  rollways  which  in  the  season's 
work  would  be  piled  up  on  the  banks.  The  ice 
went  out  early  to  his  satisfaction.  As  soon  as  the 
river  ran  clear  in  its  lower  reaches  he  took  his  rear 
crew  to  Carlin's  rollways. 

This  crew  was  forty  in  number,  and  had  been 
picked  from  the  best  —  a  hard-bitten,  tough  band 
of  veterans,  weather-beaten,  scarred  in  numerous 
fights  or  by  the  backwoods  scourge  of  small- 
pox, compact,  muscular,  fearless,  loyal,  cynically 
aloof  from  those  not  of  their  cult,  outspoken  and 
free  to  criticise  —  in  short,  men  to  do  great  things 
under  the  strong  leader,  and  to  mutiny  at  the  end 
of  three  days  under  the  weak.  They  piled  off  the 
train  at  Sawyer's,  stamped  their  feet  on  the  board 
platform  of  the  station,  shouldered  their  "  turkeys  " 
and  straggled  off  down  the  tote-road.  It  was  an 
eighteen  mile  walk  in.  The  ground  had  loosened 
its  frost.  The  footing  was  ankle  deep  in  mud  and 
snow  water. 

Next  morning,  bright  and  early,  the  breaking  of 
the   rollways  began.     During  the  winter   the   logs 

213 


214  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

had  been  hauled  down  ice  roads  to  the  river  where 
they  were  "banked"  in  piles  twenty,  even  thirty, 
feet  in  height.  The  bed  of  the  stream  itself  was 
filled  with  them  for  a  mile,  save  in  the  narrow  chan- 
nel left  down  through  the  middle  to  allow  for  some 
flow  of  water;  the  banks  were  piled  with  them, 
side  on,  ready  to  roll  down  at  the  urging  of  the  men. 
First  of  all,  the  entire  crew  set  itself,  by  means 
of  its  peavies,  to  rolling  the  lower  logs  into  the 
current,  where  they  were  rapidly  borne  away.  As 
the  waters  were  now  at  flood,  this  was  a  quick  and 
easy  labor.  Occasionally  some  tiers  would  be 
stuck  together  by  ice,  in  which  case  considerable 
prying  and  heaving  was  necessary  in  order  to  crack 
them  apart.  But  forty  men,  all  busily  at  work, 
soon  had  the  river  full.  Orde  detailed  some  six 
or  eight  to  drop  below  in  order  that  the  river  might 
run  clear  to  the  next  section,  where  the  next  crew 
would  take  up  the  task.  These  men,  quite  simply, 
walked  to  the  edges  of  the  rollway,  rolled  a  log 
apiece  into  the  water,  stepped  aboard,  leaned  against 
their  peavies  and  were  swept  away  by  the  swift 
current.  The  logs  on  which  they  stood  whirled  in 
the  eddies,  caromed  against  other  timbers,  slack- 
ened speed,  shot  away ;  never  did  the  riders  alter 
their  poses  of  easy  equilibrium.  From  time  to  time  one 
propelled  his  craft  ashore  by  hooking  to  and  pushing 
against  other  logs.     There  he  stood  on  some  promi- 


LOGGING  215 

nent  point,  leaning  his  chin  contemplatively  against 
the  thick  shaft  of  his  peavy,  watching  the  endless 
procession  of  logs  drifting  by.  Apparently  he  was 
idle,  but  in  reality  his  eyes  missed  no  shift  of  the 
ordered  ranks.  When  a  slight  hitch  or  pause,  a 
subtle  change  in  the  pattern  of  the  brown  carpet, 
caught  his  attention,  he  sprang  into  life.  Balancing 
his  peavy  across  his  body,  he  made  his  way  by 
short  dashes  to  the  point  of  the  threatened  conges- 
tion. Then,  working  vigorously,  swept  down  the 
stream  with  the  mass,  he  pulled,  hauled,  and  heaved, 
forcing  the  heavy,  reluctant  timbers  from  the  cohe- 
sion that  threatened  trouble  later.  Oblivious  to 
his  surroundings,  he  wrenched  and  pried  desperately. 
The  banks  of  the  river  drifted  by.  Point  succeeded 
point,  as  though  withdrawn  by  some  invisible 
manipulator.  Finally  he  heard  at  his  elbow  the 
voice  of  the  man  stationed  below  him,  who  had 
run  out  from  his  own  point. 

" Hullo,  Bill,"  he  replied  to  this  man,  "you  old 
slough  hog  !  tie  to  this  W 

"All  the  time !"   agreed  Bill  cheerfully. 

The  time  was  the  year  1872,  and  the  place  a 
bend  in  the  river  above  a  long  pond  terminating 
in  a  dam.  Beyond  this  dam,  and  on  a  flat  lower 
than  it,  stood  a  two-story  mill  structure.  Save  for 
a  small,  stump-dotted  clearing  and  the  road  that 
led  from  it,  all  else  was  forest.     Here  in  the  bottom 


216  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

lands,  following  the  course  of  the  stream,  the  hard- 
woods grew  dense,  their  uppermost  branches  just 
beginning  to  spray  out  in  the  first  green  of  spring. 
Farther  back,  where  the  higher  lands  arose  from 
the  swamp,  could  be  discerned  the  graceful  frond  of 
white  pines  and  hemlock,  and  the  sturdy  tops  of 
Norways  and  spruce. 

A  strong  wind  blew  up  the  length  of  the  pond. 
It  ruffled  the  surface  of  the  water,  swooping  down 
in  fan  shaped,  scurrying  cat's-paws,  turning  the 
dark-blue  surface  as  one  turns  the  nap  of  velvet. 
At  the  upper  end  of  the  pond  it  succeeded  in  raising 
quite  respectable  wavelets,  which  lap  lap  lapped 
eagerly  against  a  barrier  of  floating  logs  that  filled 
completely  the  mouth  of  the  inlet  river.  And 
behind  this  barrier  were  other  logs,  and  yet  others, 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  so  that  the  entire  surface 
of  the  stream  was  carpeted  by  the  brown  timbers. 
A  man  could  have  walked  down  the  middle  of  the 
river  as  down  a  highway. 

On  the  bank,  and  in  a  small  woods-opening, 
burned  two  fires,  their  smoke  ducking  and  twisting 
under  the  buffeting  of  the  wind.  The  first  of  these 
fires  occupied  a  shallow  trench  dug  for  its  accom- 
modation, and  was  overarched  by  a  rustic  framework 
from  which  hung  several  pails,  kettles,  and  pots. 
An  injured  looking,  chubby  man  in  a  battered  brown 
derby  hat  moved  here  and  there.     He  divided  his 


LOGGING  217 

time  between  the  utensils  and  an  indifferent  youth 
—  his  "cookee."  The  other  and  larger  fire  centered 
a  rectangle  composed  of  tall  racks,  built  of  saplings 
and  intended  for  drying  clothes.  Two  large  tents 
gleamed  white  among  the  trees. 

About  the  drying  fire  were  gathered  thirty-odd 
men.  Some  were  half-reclining  before  the  blaze ; 
others  sat  in  rows  on  logs  drawn  close  for  the  pur- 
pose ;  still  others  squatted  like  Indians  on  their 
heels,  their  hands  thrown  forward  to  keep  the 
balance.     Nearly  all  were  smoking  pipes. 

Every  age  was  represented  in  this  group,  but 
young  men  predominated.  All  wore  woollen  trou- 
sers stuffed  into  leather  boots  reaching  just  to  the 
knee.  These  boots  were  armed  on  the  soles  with 
rows  of  formidable  sharp  spikes  or  calks,  a  half 
and  sometimes  even  three  quarters  of  an  inch  in 
length.  From  the  waist  down  these  men  wore  all 
alike,  as  though  in  a  uniform,  the  outward  symbol 
of  their  calling.  One  young  fellow  sported  a 
bright-colored  Mackinaw  blanket  jacket;  another 
wore  a  red  knit  sash  with  tasselled  ends ;  a  third's 
fancy  ran  to  a  bright  bandanna  about  his  neck. 
Head-gear,  too,  covered  wide  variations  of  broader 
or  narrower  brim,  of  higher  or  lower  crown ;  and 
the  faces  underneath  those  hats  differed  as  every- 
where the  human  countenance  differs.  Only  when 
the  inspection  passing  the  gradations  of  broad  or 


218  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

narrow,  thick  or  thin,  bony  or  rounded,  rested  finally 
on  the  eyes,  would  the  observer  have  caught  again 
the  caste-mark  which  stamped  these  men  as  belong- 
ing to  a  distinct  order,  and  separated  them  essen- 
tially from  other  men  in  other  occupations.  Blue 
and  brown  and  gray  these  eyes  were,  but  all  steady 
and  clear  with  the  steadiness  and  clarity  that  comes 
to  those  whose  daily  work  compels  them  under 
penalty  to  pay  close  and  undeviating  attention  to 
their  surroundings.  This  is  true  of  sailors,  hunters, 
plainsmen,  cowboys,  and  tugboat  captains.  It  was 
especially  true  of  the  old-fashioned  river-driver,  for 
a  misstep,  a  miscalculation,  a  moment's  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  sullen  forces  shifting  and  changing  about 
him  could  mean  for  him  maiming  or  destruction. 
So,  finally,  to  one  of  the  imaginative  bent,  these 
eyes,  like  the  "  calk-boots,"  grew  to  seem  part  of 
the  uniform,  one  of  the  marks  of  their  caste,  the 
outward  symbol  of  their  calling. 

"Blow,  you  son  of  a  gun!"  cried  disgustedly  one 
young  fellow  with  a  red  bandanna,  apostrophizing 
the  wind.  "I  wonder  if  there's  any  side  of  this 
fire  that  ain't  smoky!" 

"Keep  your  hair  on,  bub,"  advised  a  calm  and 
grizzled  old-timer.  "There's  never  no  smoke  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fire  —  whichever  that  happens 
to  be.  And  as  for  the  wind  —  she  just  makes  holi- 
day for  the  river-hogs." 


LOGGING  219 

At  this  moment  the  lugubrious,  round-faced  man 
in  the  derby  hat  stepped  aside  from  the  row  of  steam- 
ing utensils  he  had  been  arranging. 

"Grub  pile/'  he  remarked  in  a  conversational  tone 
of  voice. 

The  group  arose  as  one  man  and  moved  upon  the 
heap  of  cutlery  and  of  tin  plates  and  cups.  From 
the  open  fifty-pound  lard  pails  and  kettles  they 
helped  themselves  liberally;  then  retired  to  squat 
in  little  groups  here  and  there  near  the  sources  of 
supply.  Mere  conversation  yielded  to  an  indus- 
trious silence.  Sadly  the  cook  surveyed  the  scene, 
his  arms  folded  across  the  dirty  white  apron,  an 
immense  mental  reservation  accenting  the  melan- 
choly of  his  countenance.  After  some  moments  of 
contemplation  he  mixed  a  fizzling  concoction  of 
vinegar  and  soda,  which  he  drank.  His  rotundity 
to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  he  was  ravaged 
by  a  gnawing  dyspepsia,  and  the  sight  of  six  eggs  as 
a  side  dish  to  substantiate  carried  consternation  to 
his  interior. 

So  busily  engaged  was  each  after  his  own  fashion 
that  nobody  observed  the  approach  of  a  solitary 
figure  down  the  highway  of  the  river.  The  man 
appeared  tiny  around  the  upper  bend,  momen- 
tarily growing  larger  as  he  approached.  His  prog- 
ress was  jerky  and  on  an  uneven  zigzag,  according 
as  the  logs  lay,  by  leaps,  short  runs,  brief  pauses, 


220  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

as  a  riverman  goes.  Finally  he  stepped  ashore 
just  below  the  camp,  stamped  his  feet  vigorously 
free  of  water,  and  approached  the  group  around 
the  cooking  fire. 

No  one  saw  him  save  the  cook,  who  vouchsafed 
him  a  stately  and  lugubrious  inclination  of  the 
head. 

The  newcomer  was  a  man  somewhere  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  squarely  built,  big  of  bone,  compact 
in  bulk.  His  face  was  burly,  jolly,  and  reddened 
rather  than  tanned  by  long  exposure.  A  pair  of 
twinkling  eyes  and  a  humorously  quirked  mouth 
redeemed  his  countenance  from  commonplace. 

He  spread  his  feet  apart  and  surveyed  the  scene. 

"Well,  boys/7  he  remarked  at  last  in  a  rollick- 
ing big  voice,  "I'm  glad  to  see  the  situation  hasn't 
spoiled  your  appetites." 

At  this  they  looked  up  with  a  spontaneous  an- 
swering grin.  Tom  North  laid  aside  his  plate  and 
started  to  rise. 

"Sit  still,  Tom,"  interposed  the  newcomer.  "Eat 
hearty.  I'm  going  to  feed  yet  myself.  Then  we'll 
see  what's  to  be  done.  I  think  first  thing  you'd 
better  see  to  having  this  wind  turned  off." 

After  the  meal  was  finished,  North  and  his  prin- 
cipal sauntered  to  the  water's  edge,  where  they  stood 
for  a  minute  looking  at  the  logs  and  the  ruffled 
expanse  of  water  below. 


LOGGING  221 

"Might  as  well  have  sails  on  them  and  be  done 
with  it/'  remarked  Jack  Orde  reflectively. 
"Couldn't  hold  'em  any  tighter.  The  water  was 
slack  enough  before,  but  now  there  seems  to  be  no 
current  at  all." 

"Case  of  wait  for  the  wind,"  agreed  Tom  North. 
"Old  Daly  will  be  red-headed.  He  must  be  about 
out  of  logs  at  the  mill.  The  flood-water's  going 
down  every  minute,  and  it'll  make  the  riffles  above 
Redding  a  holy  fright." 

The  next  morning  dawned  clear  and  breath- 
less. Before  daylight  the  pessimistic  cook  was 
out,  his  fire  winking  bravely  against  the  dark- 
ness. His  only  satisfaction  of  the  long  day  came 
when  he  aroused  the  men  from  the  heavy  sleep 
into  which  daily  toil  plunged  them.  With  the 
first  light  the  entire  crew  were  at  the  banks  of 
the  river. 

As  soon  as  the  wind  died  the  logs  had  begun  to 
drift  slowly  into  the  open  water.  The  surface  of 
the  pond  was  covered  with  the  scattered  timbers 
floating  idly.  After  a  few  moments  the  clank  of 
the  bars  and  ratchet  was  heard  as  two  of  the  men 
raised  the  heavy  sluice-gate  on  the  dam.  A  roar 
of  water,  momently  increasing,  marked  the  slow 
rise  of  the  barrier.  A  very  imaginative  man  might 
then  have  made  out  a  tendency  forward  on  the  part 
of  those  timbers  floating  nearest  the  centre  of  the 


222  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

pond.  It  was  a  very  sluggish  tendency ,  however, 
and  the  men  watching  critically  shook  their  heads. 

Four  more  had  by  this  time  joined  the  two 
men  who  had  raised  the  gate,  and  all  together, 
armed  with  long  pike  poles,  walked  out  on  the 
funnel-shaped  booms  that  should  concentrate  the 
logs  into  the  chute.  Here  they  prodded  forward 
the  few  timbers  within  reach,  and  waited  for 
more. 

These  were  a  long  time  coming.  Members  of  the 
driving  crew  leaped  shouting  from  one  log  to  another. 
Sometimes,  when  the  space  across  was  too  wide  to 
jump,  they  propelled  a  log  over  either  by  rolling  it, 
paddling  it,  or  projecting  it  by  the  shock  of  a  leap 
on  one  end.  In  accomplishing  these  feats  of  tight- 
rope balance,  they  stood  upright  and  graceful, 
quite  unconscious  of  themselves,  their  bodies 
accustomed  by  long  habit  to  nice  and  instant  obe- 
dience to  the  almost  unconscious  impulses  of  the 
brain.  Only  their  eyes,  intent,  preoccupied,  blazed 
out  by  sheer  will-power  the  unstable  path  their 
owners  should  follow.  Once  at  the  forefront  of  the 
drive,  the  men  began  vigorously  to  urge  the  logs 
forward.  This  they  accomplished  almost  entirely 
by  main  strength,  for  the  sluggish  current  gave 
them  little  aid.  Under  the  pressure  of  their  feet 
as  they  pushed  against  their  implements,  the  logs 
dipped,    rolled,    and    plunged.     Nevertheless,    they 


LOGGING  223 

worked  as  surely  from  the  decks  of  these  unstable 
craft  as  from  the  solid  earth  itself. 

In  this  manner  the  logs  in  the  centre  of  the  pond 
were  urged  forward  until,  above  the  chute,  they 
caught  the  slightly  accelerated  current  which  should 
bring  them  down  to  the  pike-men  at  the  dam.  Im- 
mediately, when  this  stronger  influence  was  felt,  the 
drivers  zigzagged  back  up  stream  to  start  a  fresh 
batch.  In  the  meantime  a  great  many  logs  drifted 
away  to  right  and  left  into  the  stagnant  water, 
where  they  lay  absolutely  motionless.  The  moving 
of  them  was  deferred  for  the  "  sacking  crew,"  which 
would  bring  up  the  rear. 

Jack  Orde  wandered  back  and  forth  over  the  work, 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  a  short  pipe 
clenched  between  his  teeth.  To  the  edge  of  the 
drive  he  rode  the  logs,  then  took  to  the  bank,  and 
strolled  down  to  the  dam.  There  he  stood  for  a 
moment  gazing  aimlessly  at  the  water  making  over 
the  apron,  after  which  he  returned  to  the  work. 
No  cloud  obscured  the  serene  good-nature  of  his 
face. 

At  this  moment  the  cook  stepped  into  view,  and, 
making  a  trumpet  of  his  two  hands,  sent  across 
the  water  a  long,  weird,  and  not  unmusical  cry. 
The  men  at  once  began  slowly  to  drift  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  camp.  There,  when  the  tin  plates  had 
all  been  filled,  and  each  had  found  a  place  to  his 


224  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

liking,  Orde  addressed  them.  His  manner  was 
casual  and  conversational. 

"Boys,"  said  he,  "the  old  mossback  who  owns 
that  dam  has  come  up  here  loaded  to  scatter.  He's 
built  up  the  sill  of  that  gate  until  we  can't  get  a 
draw  on  the  water,  and  he  refuses  to  give,  lend  or 
sell  us  the  right  to  cut  her  out.  I've  made  him  every 
reasonable  proposition,  but  all  I  get  back  is  quota- 
tions from  the  prophets.  Now,  we've  got  to  get 
those  logs  out  —  that's  what  we're  here  for.  A 
bunch  of  Whitewater  birlers  we'd  look  if  we  got 
hung  up  by  an  old  mossback  in  a  plug  hat.  Johnny 
Sims,  what's  the  answer?" 

"Cut  her  out,"  grinned  Johnny  Sims  briefly. 

"Correct!"  replied  Orde  with  a  chuckle.  "Cut 
her  out." 

The  chopping  crew  descended  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sluice,  the  gate  of  which  had  been  shut,  and 
began  immediately  to  chop  away  the  apron.  As 
the  water  in  the  pond  above  had  been  drawn  low 
by  the  morning's  work,  none  overflowed  the  gate, 
so  the  men  were  enabled  to  work  dry.  Below  the 
apron,  of  course,  had  been  filled  in  with  earth  and 
stones.  As  soon  as  the  axe-men  had  effected  an 
entry  to  this  deposit,  other  men  with  shovels  and 
picks  began  to  remove  the  filling. 

The  work  had  continued  nearly  an  hour  when 
Orde  commanded  the  fifty  or  more  idlers  back  to 


LOGGING  225 

camp.  They  filled  their  pipes  and  settled  down. 
Ordinarily  from  early  in  the  morning  till  very  late 
at  night  the  riverman  is  busy  every  instant  at  his 
dangerous  and  absorbing  work.  Those  affairs  which 
do  not  immediately  concern  his  task  —  as  the  swift- 
ness of  the  rapids,  the  state  of  the  flood,  the  curves 
of  the  streams,  the  height  of  the  water,  the  obstruc- 
tions of  channels,  the  quantities  of  logs  —  pass  by 
the  outer  fringe  of  his  consciousness,  if  indeed  they 
reach  him  at  all.  Thus,  often  he  works  all  day  up 
to  his  waist  in  a  current  bearing  the  rotten  ice  of 
the  first  break-up,  or  endures  the  rigors  of  a  be- 
lated snow  with  apparent  indifference.  You  or  I 
would  be  exceedingly  uncomfortable ;  would  re- 
quire an  effort  of  fortitude  to  make  the  plunge. 
Yet  these  same  men,  absorbed  in  the  mighty  prob- 
lems of  their  task,  have  little  attention  to  spare  to 
such  things.  The  cold,  the  discomfort,  the  hunger, 
the  weariness,  all  pass  as  shadows  on  the  back- 
ground. In  like  manner  the  softer  moods  of  the 
spring  rarely  penetrate  through  the  concentration 
of  faculties  on  the  work.  The  warm  sun  shines ; 
the  birds  by  thousands  flutter  and  twitter  and  sing 
their  way  north ;  the  delicate  green  of  spring, 
showered  from  the  hand  of  the  passing  Sower, 
sprinkles  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  gradually  sifts 
down  through  the  branches ;  the  great,  beautiful 
silver  clouds  sail  without  actual  existence  to  these 


226  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

men.  The  logs,  the  river  —  those  are  enough  to 
strain  all  the  faculties  a  man  possesses,  and  more. 

When  the  meal  was  finished,  the  men  lit  their 
pipes  and  went  back  to  work  philosophically.  With 
entire  absorption  in  the  task,  they  dug,  chopped, 
and  picked.  The  dull  sound  of  blows,  the  gurgle 
and  trickle  of  the  water,  the  occasional  grunt  or 
brief  comment  of  a  riverman  alone  broke  the  calm 
of  evening. 

All  night  the  work  went  on,  the  men  spelling  each 
other  at  intervals  of  every  few  hours.  By  three 
o'clock  the  main  abutments  had  been  removed. 
The  gate  was  then  blocked  to  prevent  its  fall  when 
its  nether  support  should  be  withdrawn,  and  two 
men,  leaning  over  cautiously,  began  at  arm's  length 
to  deliver  their  axe-strokes  against  the  middle  of 
the  sill-timbers  of  the  sluice  itself,  notching  each 
heavy  beam  deeply  that  the  force  of  the  current 
might  finally  break  it  in  two.  The  night  was  very 
dark,  and  very  still.  Even  the  night  creatures  had 
fallen  into  the  quietude  that  precedes  the  first 
morning  hours.  The  muffled,  spaced  blows  of  the 
axes,  the  low-voiced  comments  or  directions,  the 
crackle  of  the  fire  ashore,  were  thrown  by  contrast 
into  an  undue  importance.  Men  in  blankets, 
awaiting  their  turn,  slept  close  to  the  blaze. 

Suddenly  the  vast  silence  of  before  dawn  was 
broken  by  a  loud  and  exultant  yell  from  one  of  the 


LOGGING  227 

axe-men.  At  once  the  two  scrambled  to  the  top 
of  the  dam.  The  blanketed  figures  about  the  fire 
sprang  to  life.  A  brief  instant  later  the  snapping 
of  wood  fibres  began  like  the  rapid  explosions  of 
infantry  fire  ;  a  crash  and  bang  of  timbers  smote  the 
air;  and  then  the  river,  exultant,  roaring  with  joy, 
rushed  from  its  pent  quietude  into  the  new  passage 
opened  for  it.  At  the  same  moment,  as  though  at 
the  signal,  a  single  bird,  premonitor  of  the  yet 
distant  day,  lifted  up  his  voice,  clearly  above  the 
tumult. 

Orde  stormed  into  the  camp  up  stream,  his  eyes 
bright,  his  big  voice  booming  exultantly. 

"Roll  out,  you  river-hogs!"  he  shouted  to  those 
who  had  worked  out  their  shifts  earlier  in  the  night. 
"Roll  out,  you  web-footed  sons  of  guns,  and  hear 
the  little  birds  sing  praise!" 

On  the  river  the  work  was  going  forward  with 
the  precision  of  clockwork.  The  six-foot  lowering 
of  the  sluice-way  had  produced  a  fine  current, 
which  sucked  the  logs  down  from  above.  Men  were 
busily  engaged  in  "sacking"  them  from  the  sides 
of  the  pond  toward  its  centre,  lest  the  lowering 
water  should  leave  them  stranded.  Below  the  dam 
the  jam  crew  was  finding  plenty  do  to  in  keeping 
them  moving  in  the  white  water  and  the  shallows. 
A  fine  sun,  tempered  with  the  prophetic  warmth  of 
later  spring,   animated  the  scene. 


228  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Some  of  the  logs  shot  away  down  the  current, 
running  freely.  To  these  the  crews  were  not 
required  to  pay  any  attention.  With  luck,  a  few  of 
the  individual  timbers  would  float  ten,  even  twenty, 
miles  before  some  chance  eddy  or  fortuitous  ob- 
struction would  bring  them  to  rest.  Such  eddies  and 
obstructions,  however,  drew  a  constant  toll  from  the 
ranks  of  the  free  moving  logs,  so  that  always  the 
volume  of  timbers  caught  and  stranded  along  the 
sides  of  the  river  increased.  To  restore  these  to 
the  faster  water  was  the  especial  province  of  the 
last  and  most  expert  crew  —  the  rear. 

Orde  discovered  about  noon  that  the  jam  crew 
was  having  its  troubles.  Immediately  below  (the) 
dam  ran  a  long  chute  strewn  with  boulders,  which 
was  alternately  a  shallow  or  stretch  of  white-water, 
according  as  the  stream  rose  or  fell.  Ordinarily 
the  logs  were  flushed  over  this  declivity  by  opening 
the  gate,  behind  which  a  head  of  water  had  accu- 
mulated. Now,  however,  the  efficiency  of  the  gate 
had  been  destroyed.  Orde  early  discovered  that 
he  was  likely  to  have  trouble  in  preventing  the  logs 
rushing  through  the  chute  from  grounding  into  a 
bad  jam  on  the  rapids  below. 

For  a  time  the  jam  crew  succeeded  in  keeping 
the  "wings"  clear.  In  the  centre  of  the  stream, 
however,  a  small  jam  formed,  like  a  pier.  Along 
the  banks  logs  grounded,  and  were  rolled  over  by 


LOGGING  229 

their  momentum  into  places  so  shallow  as  to  dis- 
courage any  hope  of  refloating  them  unless  by  main 
strength.  As  the  sluicing  of  the  nine  or  ten  million 
feet  that  constituted  this  particular  drive  went 
forward,  the  situation  rapidly  became  worse. 

"Tom,  we've  got  to  get  the  flood  water  unless 
we  want  to  run  into  an  awful  job  there/'  said  Orde 
to  the  foreman.  "I  wonder  if  we  can't  drop  that 
gate  'way  down  to  get  something  for  a  head." 

The  two  men  examined  the  chute  and  the  sluice- 
gate attentively  for  some  time. 

"If  we  could  clear  out  the  splinters  and  rubbish, 
we  might  spike  a  couple  of  saplings  on  each  side  of 
the  gate  to  slide  down  into,"  speculated  North. 
"Might  try  her  on." 

The  logs  were  held  up  in  the  pond,  and  a  crew  of 
men  set  to  work  to  cut  away,  as  well  as  they  might 
in  the  rush  of  water,  the  splintered  ends  of  the  old 
sill  and  apron.  It  was  hard  work.  The  current 
rendered  footing  impossible,  so  all  the  work  had 
to  be  done  from  above.  Wet  wood  gripped  the  long 
saws  vice-like,  so  that  a  man's  utmost  strength 
could  scarcely  budge  them.  The  water  deadened 
the  force  of  the  axe  blows.  Nevertheless,  with  the 
sure  persistence  of  the  rivermen,  they  held  it. 
Orde,  watching  them  a  few  moments,  satisfied  him- 
self they  would  succeed,  and  so  departed  up  river 
to  take  charge  of  the  rear. 


230  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

This  crew  he  found  working  busily  among  some 
overflowed  woods.  They  were  herding  the  laggards 
of  the  flock.  The  subsidence  of  the  water  conse- 
quent upon  the  opening  of  the  sluice-gate  had  left 
stranded  and  in  shallows  many  hundreds  of  the 
logs.  These  men  sometimes,  waist  deep  in  the  icy 
water,  owing  to  the  extreme  inequality  of  the  bottom, 
were  rolling  them  over  and  over  with  their  peavies 
until  once  more  they  floated.  Some  few  the  river- 
men  were  forced  to  carry  bodily,  ten  men  to  a  side, 
the  peavies  clamped  in  as  handles.  When  once 
they  were  afloat,  the  task  became  easier.  From 
the  advantage  of  deadwood,  stumps,  or  other  logs 
the  "sackers"  pushed  the  unwieldy  timbers  for- 
ward, leaping,  splashing,  shoving,  until  at  last  the 
steady  current  of  the  main  river  seized  the  logs  and 
bore  them  away.  With  marvellous  skill  they  topped 
the  dripping,  bobby,  rolling  timbers,  treading  them 
over  and  over,  back  and  forth,  in  unconscious 
preservation  of  equilibrium. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  noise  and  fun  at  the 
rear.  The  crew  had  been  divided  and  a  half  worked 
on  either  side  of  the  river.  A  rivalry  developed  as 
to  which  side  should  advance  fastest  in  the  sacking. 
It  became  a  race.  Momentary  success  in  getting 
ahead  of  the  other  fellow  was  occasion  for  exultant 
crowing,  while  a  mishap  called  forth  ironic  cheers 
and  catcalls  from  the  rival  camp.     Just  as  Orde 


LOGGING  231 

came  tramping  up  the  trail,  one  of  the  riverman's 
calks  failed  to  "bite"  on  an  unusually  smooth, 
barked  surface.  His  foot  slipped ;  the  log  rolled ; 
he  tried  in  vain  to  regain  his  balance,  and  finally 
fell  in  with  a  heavy  splash. 

The  entire  river  suspended  work  to  send  up  a 
howl  of  delight.  As  the  unfortunate  crawled  out, 
dripping  from  head  to  foot,  he  was  greeted  by  a 
flood  of  sarcasm  and  profane  inquiry  that  left  no 
room  for  his  acknowledged  talents  of  repartee. 
Cursing  and  ashamed,  he  made  his  way  ashore  over 
the  logs,  spirting  water  at  every  step.  There 
he  wrung  out  his  woollen  clothes  as  dry  as  he  could, 
and  resumed  work. 

The  stray  logs  floating  down  with  the  current 
the  rivermen  caught.  The  jam  was  taking  shape. 
Slowly  it  formed,  low  and  broad.  Then,  as  the 
water  gathered  pressure,  the  logs  began  to  slip  over 
one  another.  The  weight  of  the  topmost  sunk  those 
beneath  to  the  bed  of  the  stream.  Immediately  the 
pressure  increased.  More  logs  were  piled  on  top. 
Below  the  dam  the  water  fell  almost  to  nothing, 
and  above  it,  swirling  in  eddies,  grumbling  fiercely, 
bubbling,  gurgling,  searching  busily  for  an  opening, 
the  river,  turned  back  on  itself,  gathered  its  swollen 
and  angry  forces. 

At  once  the  crew  swarmed  across  the  log  barrier 
to  a  point  above  the  centre  pier.     This  they  attacked 


232  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

with  their  peavies,  rolling  the  top  logs  off  into  the 
current  below.  In  less  than  no  time  they  had  torn 
out  quite  a  hole  in  the  top  layer.  The  river  rushed 
through  the  opening.  Immediately  the  logs  in 
the  wings  were  tumbled  in  from  either  side.  At 
first  the  men  had  to  do  all  the  work,  but  soon  the 
river  itself  turned  to  their  assistance.  Timbers 
creaked  and  settled,  or  rose  slightly  buoyant  as  the 
water  loosened  the  tangle.  Men  trod  on  the  edge 
of  expectation.  Constantly  the  logs  shifted,  and 
as  constantly  the  men  shifted  also,  avoiding  the 
upheavals  and  grindings  together,  wary  eyes  esti- 
mating the  correlation  of  the  forces  into  whose 
crushing  reach  a  single  misstep  would  bring  them. 
The  movement  accelerated  each  instant,  as  the 
music  of  the  play  hastens  to  the  climax.  Then, 
with  a  creak  and  a  groan,  the  jam  moved,  hesitated, 
moved  again ;  finally,  urged  by  the  frantic  river, 
went  out  in  a  majestic  crashing  and  battering  of  logs. 
The  rivermen  stood  at  attention,  their  peavies 
poised,  watching  cat-eyes  the  symptoms  of  the 
break.  Twice  or  thrice  several  of  the  men  ran 
forward,  used  their  peavies  vigorously  for  a  moment 
or  so,  and  stood  back  to  watch  the  result.  Only  at 
the  very  last,  when  it  would  seem  that  some  of  them 
must  surely  be  caught,  did  the  river-jacks,  using 
their  peavy-shafts  as  balancing  poles,  zigzag  calmly 
to  shore  across  the  plunging  logs. 


LOGGING  233 

By  evening  the  sluice-gate  had  been  roughly 
provided  with  pole  guides  down  which  to  slide  to 
the  bed  of  the  river.  The  following  morning  saw 
the  work  going  on.  During  the  night  a  very  good 
head  of  water  gathered  behind  the  lowered  gate. 
The  rear  crew  brought  down  the  afterguard  of  logs 
to  the  pond.  The  sluicers  with  their  long  pike- 
poles  thrust  the  logs  into  the  chute.  The  jam 
crew,  scattered  for  many  miles  along  the  lower 
stretches,  kept  the  drive  going ;  leaning  for  hours  on 
the  shafts  of  their  peavies  watching  contemplatively 
the  orderly  ranks  as  they  drifted  by,  sleepy,  on  the 
bosom  of  the  river ;  occasionally  gathering,  as  the 
filling  of  the  river  gave  warning,  to  break  a  jam. 

During  the  thirty-three  days  of  the  drive,  some 
were  disagreeable.  April  rains  are  cold  and  persis- 
tent —  the  proverbs  as  to  showers  were  made  for 
another  latitude.  Drenched  garments  are  bad 
enough  when  a  man  is  moving  about  and  has  day- 
light ;  but  when  night  falls,  and  the  work  is  over, 
he  likes  a  dry  place  and  a  change  with  which  to 
comfort  himself.  Dry  places  there  were  none. 
Even  the  interior  of  the  tents  became  sodden  by 
continual  exits  and  entrances  of  dripping  men, 
while  garments  speedily  dampened  in  the  shiftings 
of  camp  which,  in  the  broader  reaches  of  the  river, 
took  place  nearly  every  day.  Men  worked  in 
soaked  garments,  slept  in  damp  blankets.     Charlie 


234  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

cooked  only  by  virtue  of  persistence.  The  river- 
men  ate  standing  up,  as  close  to  the  sputtering, 
roaring  fires  as  they  could  get.  Always  the  work 
went  forward. 

But  there  were  other  times  when  a  golden  sun 
rose  each  morning  a  little  earlier  on  the  green  and 
joyous  world.  The  river  ran  blue.  Migratory 
birds  fled  busily  northward  —  robins,  flute-voiced 
bluebirds,  warblers  of  many  species,  sparrows  of 
different  kinds,  shore  birds  and  ducks,  the  sweet- 
songed  thrushes.  Little  tepid  breezes  wandered 
up  and  down,  warm  in  \ contrast  to  the  faint  snow- 
chill  that  even  yet  lingered  in  the  shadows.  Sounds 
carried  clearly,  so  that  the  shouts  and  banter  of  the 
rivermen  were  plainly  audible  up  the  reaches  of  the 
river.  Ashore  moist  and  aggressive  green  things 
were  pushing  up  through  the  watery  earth  from 
which,  in  shade,  the  last  frost  had  not  yet  departed. 
At  camp  the  fires  roared  invitingly.  Charlie's 
grub  was  hot  and  grateful.  The  fir-beds  gave 
dreamless  sleep. 

The  drive  went  down  as  far  as  Redding  in  thirty- 
three  days.  It  had  its  share  of  tribulation.  The 
men  worked  fourteen  and  sixteen  hours  at  times. 
Several  bad  jams  relieved  the  monotony.  Three 
dams  had  to  be  sluiced  through.  Problems  of 
mechanics  arose  to  be  solved  on  the  spot ;  prob- 
lems that  an  older  civilization  would  have  attacked 


LOGGING  235 

deliberately  and  with  due  respect  for  the  serious- 
ness of  the  situation  and  the  dignity  of  engineering. 
Orde  solved  them  by  a  rough-and-ready  but  very 
effective  rule  of  thumb.  He  built  and  abandoned 
structures  which  would  have  furnished  opportunity 
for  a  winter's  discussion  to  some  committees ; 
just  as,  earlier  in  the  work,  the  loggers  had  built 
through  a  rough  country  some  hundreds  of  miles 
of  road  better  than  railroad  grade,  solid  in  foun- 
dation, and  smooth  as  a  turnpike,  the  quarter  of 
which  would  have  occupied  the  average  county 
board  of  supervisors  for  five  years.  And  while  he 
was  at  it,  Orde  kept  his  men  busy  and  satisfied. 
Your  white-water  birler  is  not  an  easy  citizen  to 
handle.  Yet  never  once  did  the  boss  appear  hur- 
ried or  flustered.  Always  he  wandered  about,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  chewing  a  twig,  his  round,  wind- 
reddened  face  puckered  humorously,  his  blue  eyes 
twinkling,  his  square,  burly  form  lazily  relaxed. 
He  seemed  to  meet  his  men  almost  solely  on  the 
plane  of  good-natured  chaffing.  Yet  the  work  was 
done,  and  done  efficiently,  and  Orde  was  the  man 
responsible. 

Taken  from   The  Riverman,  by  Stewart  Edward  White, 
published  by  The  McClure  Book  Company. 


GOLD 

From  Gold 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

The  opening  up  of  the  wonder-empire  of  the 
California  coast  is  the  theme  of  Stewart  Edward 
White's  Gold.  Gold,  in  his  book,  as  in  reality, 
means  not  only  the  so-called  precious  metal  itself 
but  Opportunity  —  the  opportunity  given  to  every 
man  to  dig  his  livelihood  from  the  earth  without 
let*  or  hindrance  of  any  other  man.  This  gives  his 
book  the  epic  quality. 

The  four  young  adventurers  of  this  narrative 
come  to  California  to  tear  her  gold  from  her,  but 
settle  to  live  in  her.  "It  isn't  the  gold.  That  is 
the  bait.  It's  the  country.  After  the  gold  is  dug 
and  scattered  and  all  but  forgotten,  we  will  find 
that  we  have  fallen  heirs  to  an  empire." 

For  young  people  and  adults. 


■cp 


GOLD 

We  stood  in  between  the  hills  that  guarded  the 
bay  of  San  Francisco  about  ten  o'clock  of  an  early 
spring  day.  A  fresh  cold  wind  pursued  us ;  and 
the  sky  above  us  was  bluer  than  I  had  ever  seen 
it  before,  even  on  the  Isthmus.  To  our  right  some 
great  rocks  were  covered  with  seals  and  sea  lions, 
and  back  of  them  were  hills  of  yellow  sand.  A 
beautiful  great  mountain  rose  green  to  our  left, 
and  the  water  beneath  us  swirled  and  eddied  in 
numerous  whirlpools  made  by  the  tide. 

Everybody  was  on  deck  and  close  to  the  rail. 
We  strained  our  eyes  ahead ;  and  saw  two  islands, 
and  beyond  a  shore  of  green  hills.  None  of  us  knew 
where  San  Francisco  was  located,  nor  could  we 
find  out.  The  ship's  company  were  much  too  busy 
to  pay  attention  to  our  questions.  The  great  open- 
ing out  of  the  bay  beyond  the  long  narrows  was 
therefore  a  great  surprise  to  us ;  it  seemed  as  vast 
as  an  inland  sea.  We  hauled  to  the  wind,  turning 
sharp  to  the  south,  and  glided  past  the  bold  point 
of  rocks. 

Then  we  saw  the  city  concealed  in  a  bend  of  the 
cove.     It  was  mainly  of  canvas ;  hundreds,  perhaps 

239 


240  THE   ROMANCE  OF   LABOR 

thousands  of  tents  and  canvas  houses  scattered  about 
the  sides  of  the  hills.  The  flat  was  covered  with 
them,  too,  and  they  extended  for  some  distance 
along  the  shore  of  the  cove.  A  great  dust,  borne 
by  the  wind  that  had  brought  us  in,  swept  across 
the  city  like  a  cloud  of  smoke.  Hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  vessels  lay  at  anchor  in  the  harbor, 
a  vast  fleet. 

We  were  immediately  surrounded  by  small  boats, 
and  our  decks  filled  with  men.  We  had  our  first 
sight  of  the  genuine  miners.  They  proved  to  be 
as  various  as  the  points  of  the  compass.  Big  men, 
little  men,  clean  men,  dirty  men,  shaggy  men, 
shaven  men,  but  all  instinct  with  an  eager  life  and 
energy  I  have  never  seen  equalled.  Most  wore 
the  regulation  dress  —  a  red  shirt,  pantaloons 
tucked  into  the  tops  of  boots,  broad  belts  with 
sometimes  silver  buckles,  silk  Chinese  sashes  of 
vivid  raw  colors,  a  revolver,  a  bowie  knife,  a 
floppy  old  hat.  Occasionally  one,  more  dignified 
than  the  rest,  sported  a  shiny  top  hat ;  but  always 
with  the  red  shirt.  These  were  merchants,  and 
men  permanently  established  in  the  town. 

They  addressed  us  eagerly,  asking  a  thousand 
questions  concerning  the  news  of  the  outside  world. 
We  could  hardly  answer  them  in  our  desire  to  ques- 
tion in  return.  Were  the  gold  stories  really  true? 
Were    the    diggings    very    far    away?      Were    the 


GOLD  241 

diggings  holding  out?  What  were  the  chances  for 
newcomers  ?  And  so  on  without  end  ;  and  the  bur- 
den always  of  gold  !  gold  !  gold  ! 

We  were  answered  with  the  enthusiasm  of  an 
old-timer  welcoming  a  newcomer  to  any  country. 
Gold !  Plenty  of  it !  They  told  us,  in  breathless 
snatches,  the  most  marvellous  tales  —  one  sailor 
had  dug  $17,000  in  a  week;  another  man,  a  farmer 
from  New  England,  was  taking  out  $5000  to  $6000 
daily.  They  mentioned  names  and  places.  They 
pointed  to  the  harbor  full  of  shipping.  "Four 
hundred  ships,"  said  they,  "and  hardly  a  dozen 
men  aboard  the  lot!  All  gone  to  the  mines !" 
And  one  man  snatching  a  long  narrow  buckskin 
bag  from  his  pocket,  shook  out  of  its  mouth  to  the 
palm  of  his  hand  a  tiny  cascade  of  glittering  yellow 
particles  —  the  Dust !  We  shoved  and  pushed, 
crowding  around  him  to  see  this  marvellous  sight. 
He  laughed  in  a  sort  of  excited  triumph,  and  tossed 
the  stuff  into  the  air.  The  breeze  caught  it  and 
scattered  it  wide.  A  number  of  the  little  glittering 
particles  clung  to  my  rough  coat,  where  they  flashed 
like  spangles. 

"Plenty  more  where  that  came  from!"  cried  the 
man;   and  turned  away  with  a  reckless  laugh. 

Filled  with  the  wine  of  this  new  excitement  we 
finally  succeeded  in  getting  ashore  in  one  of  the 
ship's  boats. 


242  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

We  landed  on  a  flat  beach  of  deep  black  sand. 
It  was  strewn  from  one  end  to  the  other  by  the  most 
extraordinary  wreckage.  There  were  levers;  cog- 
wheels, cranks,  fans,  twisted  bar,  and  angle  iron, 
in  all  stages  of  rust  and  disintegration.  Some  of 
these  machines  were  half  buried  in  the  sand  ;  others 
were  tidily  laid  up  on  stones  as  though  just  landed. 
They  were  of  copper,  iron,  zinc,  brass,  tin,  wood. 
We  recognized  the  genus  at  a  glance.  They  were, 
one  and  all,  patent  labour-saving  gold  washing 
machines,  of  which  we  had  seen  so  many  samples 
aboard  ship.  At  this  sight  vanished  the  last  re- 
mains of  envy  I  had  ever  felt  for  the  owners  of 
similar  contraptions. 

We  looked  about  for  some  sort  of  conveyance  into 
which  to  dump  our  belongings.  Apparently  none 
existed.  Therefore  we  piled  most  of  our  effects 
neatly  above  high  tide,  shouldered  our  bundles, 
and  started  off  up  the  single  street. 

On  either  side  this  thoroughfare  stood  hundreds 
of  open  sheds  and  buildings  in  the  course  of  con- 
struction. Goods  of  all  sorts,  and  in  great  quantity, 
lay  beneath  them,  wholly  or  partially  exposed  to 
the  dust  and  weather.  Many  unopened  bales  had 
been  left  in  the  open  air.  One  low  brick  building 
of  a  single  story  seemed  to  be  the  only  substantial 
structure  in  sight.  We  saw  quantities  of  calicos, 
silks,  rich  furniture,  stacks  of  the  pieces  of  knock- 


GOLD  243 

down  houses,  tierces  of  tobacco,  piles  of  all  sorts  of 
fancy  clothing.  The  most  unexpected  and  incon- 
gruous items  of  luxury  seemed  to  have  been  dumped 
down  here  from  the  corners  of  the  earth,  by  the 
four  hundred  ships  swinging  idly  at  anchor  in  the 
bay. 

The  street  was,  I  think,  the  worst  I  have  ever 
seen  anywhere.  It  was  a  morass  of  mud,  sticky, 
greasy  mud,  of  some  consistency,  but  full  of  water- 
holes  and  rivulets.  It  looked  ten  feet  deep ;  and 
I  should  certainly  have  ventured  out  on  it  with  mis- 
givings. And  yet,  incongruously  enough,  the  sur- 
face ridges  of  it  had  dried,  and  were  lifting  into  the 
air  in  the  form  of  dust !  This  was  of  course  my 
first  experience  with  that  common  California  phe- 
nomenon, and  I  was  greatly  astonished. 

An  attempt  had  been  made  to  supply  footing  for 
pedestrians.  Bags  of  sand  had  been  thrown  down, 
some  rocks,  a  very  few  boxes  and  boards.  Then 
our  feet  struck  something  soft  and  yielding,  and  we 
found  we  were  walking  over  hundred  pound  sacks 
of  flour  marked  as  from  Chili.  There  must  have 
been  many  hundreds  of  them.  A  man  going  in  the 
opposite  direction  sidled  past  us. 

"  Cheaper  than  lumber,"  he  said  briefly,  seeing 
our  astonishment. 

"I'd  hate  to  ask  the  price  of  lumber,"  remarked 
one  of  our  ship's  companions,  with  whom  —  and  a 


244  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

number  of  others  —  we  were  penetrating  the  town. 
This  man  carried  only  a  very  neat  black  morocco 
satchel  and  a  net  bag  containing  a  half  dozen  pine- 
apples, the  last  of  a  number  he  had  brought  from 
the  Isthmus.  The  contrast  of  that  morocco  bag 
with  the  rest  of  him  was  quite  as  amusing  as  any 
we  saw  about  us ;  though,  of  course,  he  did  not 
appreciate  that. 

We  walked  on  flour  for  a  hundred  feet  or  so,  and 
then  came  to  cook  stoves.  I  mean  it.  A  battal- 
ion of  heavy  iron  cook  stoves  had  been  laid  side  by 
side  to  form  a  causeway.  Their  weight  combined 
with  the  traffic  over  them  had  gradually  pressed 
them  down  into  the  mud  until  their  tops  were 
nearly  level  with  the  surface.  Naturally  the  first 
merry  and  drunken  joker  had  shied  the  lids  into 
space.  The  pedestrian  had  now  either  to  step  in 
and  out  of  fire  boxes  or  try  his  skill  on  narrow  ledges  ! 
Next  we  came  to  a  double  row  of  boxes  of  tobacco ; 
then  to  some  baled  goods,  and  so  off  onto  solid  ground. 

We  passed  many  people,  all  very  intent  on  getting 
along  safely.  From  the  security  of  the  shed  stores 
the  proprietors  and  an  assorted  lot  of  loafers  watched 
proceedings  with  interest.  The  task  of  crossing  the 
street  from  one  side  to  the  other,  especially,  was  one 
not  lightly  to  be  undertaken !  A  man  had  to  bal- 
ance, to  leap,  to  poise ;  and  at  last  probably,  to 
teeter  back  and  forth  trying  to  keep  his  balance  like 


GOLD  245 

a  small  boy  on  a  fence  rail,  until,  with  an  oath  of 
disgust,  he  stepped  off  into  the  slime. 

When  we  had  gained  the  dry  ground  near  the  head 
of  the  street  we  threw  down  our  burdens  for  a  rest. 

"I'll  give  you  ten  dollars  for  those  pineapples !" 
offered  a  passerby,  stopping  short. 

Our  companion  quickly  closed  the  bargain. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  demanded  of 
us  wide-eyed,  and  in  the  hearing  of  the  purchaser. 

The  latter  grinned  a  little,  and  hailed  a  man  across 
the  street. 

"Charley!"  he  yelled.     "Come  over  here!" 

The  individual  addressed  offered  some  demur, 
but  finally  picked  his  way  across  to  us. 

"How  do  you  like  these?"  demanded  the  pine- 
apple purchaser,  showing  his  fruit. 

"Jerusalem!"  cried  Charley  admiringly,  "where 
did  you  get  them?     Want  to  sell  'em?" 

"I  want  some  myself,  but  I'll  sell  you  three  of 
them." 

"How  much?" 

"Fifteen  dollars." 

"Give  'em  to  me." 

The  first  purchaser  grinned  openly  at  our  com- 
panion. 

The  latter  followed  into  the  nearest  store  to  get 
his  share  of  the  dust  weighed  out.  His  face  wore  a 
very  thoughtful  expression. 


246  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

The  square  itself  was  crowded  with  people  mov- 
ing to  and  fro.  The  solid  majority  of  the  crowd 
consisted  of  red  and  blue  shirted  miners ;  but  a 
great  many  nations  and  frames  of  mind  seemed  to 
be  represented.  Chinese  merchants,  with  red  coral 
buttons  atop  their  stiff  little  skullcaps,  wandered 
slowly,  their  hands  tucked  in  capacious  sleeves  of 
the  richest  brocade.  We  had  seen  few  of  this  race ; 
and  we  looked  at  them  with  the  greatest  interest, 
examining  closely  their  broad  bland  faces,  the  deli- 
cate lilacs  and  purples  and  blues  of  their  rich  cos- 
tumes, the  swaying  silk  braided  queues  down  their 
backs.  Other  Chinese,  of  the  lower  castes,  clad 
in  blue  canvas  with  broad  bowl-shaped  hats  of 
straw  on  their  heads,  wormed  their  way  through 
the  crowd  balancing  baskets  at  the  ends  of  poles. 
Rivalling  the  great  Chinese  merchants  in  their 
leisure,  strolled  the  representatives  of  the  native 
race,  the  Spanish  Californians.  They  were  darkly 
handsome  men,  dressed  gloriously  in  short  velvet 
jackets,  snowy  ruffles,  plush  trousers  flaring  at  the 
bottom,  and  slit  up  the  side  of  the  leg,  soft  leather 
boots,  and  huge  spurs  ornamented  with  silver. 
They  sauntered  to  and  fro,  smoking  brown-paper 
cigarettos.  Besides  these  two,  the  Chinese  and 
Californians,  but  one  other  class  seemed  to  be 
moving  with  any  deliberation.  These  were  men 
seen  generally  alone,  or  at  most  in  pairs.     They  were 


GOLD  247 

quiet,  waxy  pale,  dressed  always  neatly  in  soft 
black  hat,  white  shirt,  long  black  coat,  and  varnished 
boots.  In  the  face  of  a  general  gabble  they  seemed 
to  remain  indifferently  silent,  self-contained  and 
aloof.  To  occasional  salutations  they  responded 
briefly  and  with  gravity. 

"  Prof essional  gamblers,"  said  Talbot. 

Two  days  later  Yank,  Johnny,  and  I  embarked 
aboard  a  small  bluff-bowed  sailboat,  waved  our 
farewells  to  Talbot  standing  on  the  shore,  and  laid 
our  course  to  cross  the  blue  bay  behind  an  island 
called  Alcatraz.  Our  boatman  was  a  short,  swarthy 
man,  with  curly  hair  and  gold  rings  in  his  ears.  He 
handled  his  boat  well,  but  spoke  not  at  all. 

The  breeze  was  strong,  and  drove  even  our  rather 
clumsy  craft  at  considerable  speed.  We  stared 
ahead  of  us,  all  eyes.  The  bay  was  a  veritable 
inland  sea ;  and  the  shores  ahead  of  us  lay  flat  and 
wide,  with  blue  hazy  hills  in  the  distance,  and  a 
great  mountain  hovering  in  midair  to  our  right. 
Black  cormorants  going  upwind  flapped  heavily  by 
us  just  above  the  water,  their  necks  stretched  out. 
Gulls  wheeled  and  screamed  above  us,  or  floated 
high  and  light  like  corks  over  the  racing  waves. 
Rafts  of  ducks  lay  bobbing,  their  necks  furled,  their 
heads  close  to  their  bodies. 

Altogether  it  was  a  pleasant  sail.  The  distant 
flat  shores  drew  nearer.     We  turned  a  corner  and 


248  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

glided  up  the  reaches  of  a  wide  beautiful  river. 
Never  have  I  seen  so  many  ducks  and  geese  of  all 
kinds.  They  literally  covered  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and  fairly  seemed  to  jostle  each  other  as 
they  swam  busily  to  and  fro,  intent  on  some  busi- 
ness of  their  own.  Their  comfortable,  low  conver- 
sational clucking  and  quacking  was  a  pleasure  to 
hear. 

Within  a  half  hour  we  landed  on  a  little  island  of 
solid  ground.     Here  we  made  camp  for  the  night. 

All  next  day,  and  the  days  after,  being  luckily 
favored  by  steady  fair  winds,  we  glided  up  the 
river.  The  last  day  out  we  came  into  a  wide  bot- 
tom-land country  with  oaks.  At  noon  we  dis- 
cerned ahead  of  us  a  low  bluff,  and  a  fork  in  the 
river ;  and  among  the  oak  trees  the  gleam  of  tents, 
and  before  them  a  tracery  of  masts  where  the  boats 
and  small  ships  lay  moored  to  the  trees. 

We  disembarked  into  a  welter  of  confusion. 
Dust,  men,  mules,  oxen,  bales,  boxes,  barrels,  and 
more  dust.  Everything  was  in  the  open  air.  Tents 
were  pitched  in  the  open,  under  the  great  oaks, 
anywhere  and  everywhere.  Next  the  river,  and  for 
perhaps  a  hundred  yards  from  the  banks,  the  can- 
vas structures  were  arranged  in  rows  along  what 
were  evidently  intended  to  be  streets ;  but  beyond 
that  every  one  simply  " squatted"  where  he  pleased. 
We  tramped  about  until  we  found  a  clear  space,  and 


GOLD  249 

there  dumped  down  our  effects.  They  were  simple 
enough ;  and  our  housekeeping  consisted  in  spread- 
ing our  blankets  and  canvas,  and  unpacking  our 
frying  pan  and  pots.  The  entire  list  of  our  provi- 
sions consisted  of  pork,  flour,  salt,  tea,  coffee,  sugar, 
tobacco,  and  some  spirits. 

After  supper  we  went  out  in  a  body  to  see  what 
we  could  find  out  concerning  our  way  to  the  mines. 
We  did  not  even  possess  a  definite  idea  as  to  where 
we  wanted  to  go  ! 

In  this  quest  we  ran  across  our  first  definite  dis- 
couragement. The  place  was  full  of  men  and  they 
were  all  willing  to  talk.  According  to  them  the 
whole  gold-fable  was  vastly  exaggerated.  To  be 
sure  there  was  gold,  no  one  could  deny  that,  but  it 
occurred  very  rarely,  and  in  terrible  places  to  get 
at.  One  had  to  put  in  ten  dollars'  worth  of  work, 
to  get  out  one  dollar's  worth  of  dust.  And  provi- 
sions were  so  high  that  the  cost  of  living  ate  up  all 
the  profits.  Besides,  we  were  much  too  late.  All 
the  good  claims  had  been  taken  up  and  worked 
out  by  the  earliest  comers.  A  man  was  a  fool 
ever  to  leave  home,  but  a  double-dyed  fool  not  to 
return  as  soon  as  possible.  Thus  the  army  of  the 
discouraged. 

We  continued  our  inquiries,  however,  and  had 
soon  acquired  a  mass  of  varied  information.  The 
nearest  mines  were  about  sixty  miles  away ;    we 


250  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

could  get  our  freight  transported  that  far  by  the 
native  Californian  cargadores  at  fifty  dollars  a 
hundredweight.  Or  we  could  walk  and  carry  our 
goods.  Or  we  might  buy  a  horse  or  so  to  pack  in 
our  belongings.  Fifty  dollars  a  hundred  seemed 
pretty  steep  for  freighting ;  we  would  not  be  able 
to  carry  all  we  owned  on  our  backs ;  we  decided  to 
buy  horses. 

Accordingly  next  morning,  after  a  delicious  sleep 
under  the  open  sky,  we  set  out  to  cover  the  three 
or  four  miles  to  Sutter's  Fort. 

This  was  my  first  sight  of  the  California  country 
landscape,  and  I  saw  it  at  the  most  beautiful  time 
of  the  year.  The  low-rolling  hills  were  bright 
green,  against  which  blended  the  darker  green  of 
the  park-like  oaks.  Over  the  slopes  were  washes  of 
color  where  the  wild  flowers  grew,  like  bright  scarves 
laid  out  in  the  sun.  They  were  of  deep  orange,  or 
an  equally  deep  blue,  or,  perhaps,  of  mingled  white 
and  purple.  Each  variety,  and  there  were  many  of 
them,  seemed  to  grow  by  itself  so  that  the  colors 
were  massed.  Johnny  muttered  something  about 
"the  trailing  glory  —  banners  of  the  hills";  but 
whether  that  was  a  quotation  or  just  Johnny  I  do 
not  know. 

We  topped  a  rise  and  advanced  on  Sutter's  Fort 
as  though  we  intended  by  force  and  arms  to  take 
that  historic  post. 


GOLD  251 

We  loaded  our  pack-horses,  and  set  off  next 
morning  early  on  the  trail  up  the  American  River. 
At  last,  it  seemed  to  us,  we  were  really  under  way ; 
as  though  our  long  journeyings  and  many  experi- 
ences had  been  but  a  preparation  for  this  start. 

The  morning  was  a  very  fine  one.  Every  little 
while  we  stopped  to  readjust  the  burdens  to  our 
animals.  A  mountaineer  had  showed  us  how  to 
lash  them  on,  but  our  skill  at  that  sort  of  thing  was 
miner's,  and  the  packs  would  not  hold.  We  had 
to  do  them  one  at  a  time,  using  the  packed  animal 
as  a  pattern  from  which  to  copy  the  hitch  on  the 
other.  However  we  got  on  well  enough,  and 
mounted  steadily  by  the  turns  and  twists  of  an 
awful  road,  following  the  general  course  of  the 
river  below  us. 

The  next  day  lifted  us  into  the  mountains.  Big 
green  peaks  across  which  hung  a  bluish  haze  showed 
themselves  between  the  hills.  Along  the  roadside, 
rarely,  we  came  upon  rough-looking  log  cabins,  or 
shacks  of  canvas,  or  tents.  The  owners  were  not 
at  home. 

We  came  upon  the  diggings  quite  suddenly. 
The  trail  ran  around  the  corner  of  a  hill,  and  there 
they  were  below  us  !  In  a  wide,  dry  steam  bottom 
perhaps  fifty  men  were  working  busily,  like  a  lot  of 
ants.  Some  were  picking  away  at  the  surface 
of  the  ground,   others  had   dug  themselves  down 


252  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

waist  deep,  and  stooped  and  rose  like  legless  bodies. 
Others  had  disappeared  below  ground,  and  showed 
occasionally  only  as  shovel  blades.  From  so  far 
above  the  scene  was  very  lively  and  animated,  for 
each  was  working  like  a  beaver,  and  the  red  shirts 
made  gay  little  spots  of  color.  On  the  hillside 
clung  a  few  white  tents  and  log  cabins ;  but  the  main 
town  itself,  we  later  discovered,  as  well  as  the  larger 
diggings,  lay  around  the  bend  and  upstream. 

The  camp  consisted  merely  of  a  closer-knit  group 
of  tents,  log  shacks,  and  a  few  larger  buildings 
constructed  of  a  queer  combination  of  heavy  hewn 
timbers  and  canvas.  We  drove  our  animals  along 
the  one  street,  looking  for  the  trail  that  should 
lead  us  back  to  the  diggings.  It  proceeded  along 
a  rough,  boulder-strewn  river-bed,  around  a  point 
of  rough,  jagged  rocks,  and  out  to  a  very  wide 
gravelly  flat  through  which  the  river  had  made 
itself  a  narrow  channel.  The  flat  swarmed  with 
men,  all  of  them  busy,  and  very  silent. 

Leaving  our  pack-horses  we  approached  the 
nearest  pair  of  these  men,  and  stood  watching  them 
curiously.  One  held  a  coarse  screen  of  willow  which 
he  shook  continuously  above  a  common  cooking-pot, 
while  the  other  slowly  shovelled  earth  over  this 
sieve.  When  the  two  pots,  which  with  the  shovel 
seemed  to  be  all  the  tools  these  men  possessed,  had 
been  half  filled  thus  with  the  fine  earth,  the  men 


GOLD  253 

carried  them  to  the  river.  We  followed.  The 
miners  carefully  submerged  the  pots,  and  com- 
menced to  stir  their  contents  with  their  doubled 
fists.  The  light  earth  muddied  the  water,  floated 
upward,  and  then  flowed  slowly  over  the  rim  of  the 
pots  and  down  the  current.  After  a  few  minutes  of 
this,  they  lifted  the  pots  carefully,  drained  off  the 
water,  and  started  back. 

"  May  we  look  ?  "  ventured  Johnny. 

The  taller  man  glanced  at  us  and  our  pack-horses, 
and  nodded.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  troubled 
to  take  a  good  look  at  us.  The  bottom  of  the  pot 
was  covered  with  fine  black  sand  in  which  we  caught 
the  gleam  and  sparkle  of  something  yellow. 

"Is  that  gold?"  I  asked,  awed. 

"That's  gold,"  the  man  repeated,  his  rather 
saturnine  features  lighting  up  with  a  grin.  Then 
seeing  our  interest,  he  unbent  a  trifle.  "We  dry 
the  sand,  and  then  blow  it  away,"  he  explained ; 
and  then  strode  back  to  where  his  companion  was 
impatiently  waiting. 

We  stumbled  on  over  the  rocks  and  debris.  There 
were  probably  something  near  a  hundred  men  at 
work  in  the  gulch.  We  soon  observed  that  the  pot 
method  was  considered  a  very  crude  and  simple 
way  of  getting  out  the  gold.  Most  of  the  men 
carried  iron  pans  full  of  the  earth  to  the  waterside, 
where,    after    submerging    until    the    lighter    earth 


254  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

had  floated  off,  they  slopped  the  remainder  over  tb<* 
side  with  a  peculiar  twisting,  whirling  motion, 
leaving  only  the  black  sand  —  and  the  gold ! 
These  pan  miners  were  in  the  great  majority.  But 
one  group  of  four  men  was  doing  business  on  a 
larger  scale.  They  had  constructed  what  looked 
like  a  very  shallow  baby-cradle  on  rockers  into 
which  they  poured  their  earth  and  water.  By 
rocking  the  cradle  violently  but  steadily,  they 
spilled  the  mud  over  the  sides.  Cleats  had  been 
nailed  in  the  bottom  to  catch  the  black  sand. 

We  wandered  about  here  and  there,  looking  with 
all  our  eyes.  The  miners  were  very  busy  and 
silent,  but  quite  friendly,  and  allowed  us  to  exam- 
ine as  much  as  we  pleased  the  results  of  their  oper- 
ations. In  the  pots  and  cradles  the  yellow  flake 
gold  glittered  plainly,  contrasting  with  the  black 
sand.  In  the  pans,  however,  the  residue  spread  out 
fan-shaped  along  the  angle  between  the  bottom 
and  the  side,  and  at  the  apex  the  gold  lay  heavy 
and  beautiful  all  by  itself.  The  men  were  generally 
bearded,  tanned  with  working  in  this  blinding  sun, 
and  plastered  liberally  with  the  red  earth.  We 
saw  some  queer  sights,  however ;  as  when  we  came 
across  a  jolly  pair  dressed  in  what  were  the  remains 
of  ultra-fashionable  garments  up  to  and  including 
plug  hats.  At  one  side  working  some  distance 
from    the    stream    were    small    groups    of    native 


GOLD 


255 


Calif ornians  or  •  Mexicans.  They  did  not  trouble 
to  carry  the  earth  all  the  way  to  the  river,  but, 
after  screening  it  roughly,  tossed  it  into  the  air 
above  a  canvas,  thus  winnowing  out  the  heavier  pay 
dirt.     I  thought  this  must  be  very  disagreeable. 

As  we  wandered  about  here  and  there  among  these 
men  so  busily  engaged,  and  with  our  own  eyes  saw 
pan  after  pan  show  gold,  actual  metallic  guaran- 
teed gold,  such  as  rings  and  watches  and  money  are 
made  of,  a  growing  excitement  possessed  us,  the 
excitement  of  a  small  boy  with  a  new  and  untried 
gun.  We  wanted  to  get  at  it  ourselves.  Only  we 
did  not  know  how. 


Taken  from  Gold,  by  Stewart  Edward  White,  published 
by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company. 


THE   KING  OF   THE   POETS 

From  The  Girl  of  the  Limberlost 

BY 

GENE   STRATTON-PORTER 

The  Girl  of  the  Limberlost  is  the  story  of  a  student 
musician  earning  her  education  by  selling  the  moths 
she  gathered  in  the  Limberlost.  It  is  a  pleasing 
love  story. 

The  Limberlost  is  a  huge,  practically  unexplored 
swamp  in  northern  Indiana,  near  the  home  of 
Gene  Stratton-Porter,  the  author.  Here  she  studied, 
photographed,  and  worked,  her  mother  teaching 
her  how  to  make  things  grow,  her  father  how  to 
find  nests  of  rarest  birds,  and  haunts  of  shyest 
blossoms.  Mrs.  Porter's  earliest  writings  were 
articles  embodying  her  own  patient,  prolonged  ob- 
servations of  wild  life,  in  swamp  and  woodland; 
she,  therefore,  knows  intimately  the  life  of  the  forest. 
She  alternates  a  book  of  nature,  written  for  love, 
with  "nature  studies  sugar-coated  with  fiction." 

For  young  people. 


■te» 


THE  KING  OF  THE  POETS 

There  it  stood  in  a  bank  window  in  big  black 
tetters  staring  straight  at  her : 

"  Wanted:  Caterpillars,  Cocoons,  Chrysalides, 
Pupae  cases,  Butterflies,  Moths.  Highest  scale  of 
prices  paid  in  cash." 

Elnora  caught  the  wicket  at  the  cashier's  desk 
with  both  hands  to  brace  herself  against  disap- 
pointment. 

"Who  is  it  wants  to  buy  cocoons,  butterflies, 
and  moths?"  she  asked. 

"The  Bird  Woman,"  answered  the  cashier. 
"Have  you  some  for  sale?" 

"I  have  some;  I  do  not  know  if  they  are  what 
she  would  want." 

"Well,  you  had  better  see  her,"  said  the  cashier. 

At  noon  Elnora  started  to  the  home  of  the  Bird 
Woman.  She  must  know  about  the  specimens. 
She  dropped  the  heavy  knocker  on  the  door  of  the 
big  red  log  cabin,  and  her  heart  thumped  at  the 
resounding  stroke. 

"Is  the  Bird  Woman  at  home?"  she  asked  of  the 
maid. 

"She  is  at  lunch,"  was  the  answer. 
259 


260  THE    ROMANCE   OF    LABOR 

"Will  you  please  ask  her  if  she  will  see  a  girl  from 
the  Limberlost  about  some  moths?"  inquired  El- 
nora. 

"I  need  never  ask,  if  it's  moths/'  laughed  the 
girl.  "Orders  are  to  bring  anyone  with  specimens 
right  in.     Come  this  way." 

Elnora  followed  down  the  hall  and  entered  a 
long  room  with  high  panelled  wainscoting.  At  a 
bare  table  of  oak,  yellow  as  gold,  sat  a  woman 
Elnora  often  had  watched  and  followed  covertly 
around  the  Limberlost.  The  Bird  Woman  was 
holding  out  a  hand  of  welcome. 

"I  heard!"  she  laughed.  "A  little  pasteboard 
box,  or  just  the  bare  word  'specimen,'  passes  you 
at  my  door.  If  it's  moths  I  hope  you  have  hun- 
dreds. I've  been  very  busy  all  summer  and  un- 
able to  collect,  and  I  need  so  many.  From  the 
Limberlost,  did  you  say?" 

"I  live  near  the  swamp,"  replied  Elnora. 

"What  have  you  collected?"  asked  the  Bird 
Woman. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  bothering  you  for  nothing, 
and  imposing  on  you,"  she  said.  "That  'collected' 
frightens  me.  I've  only  gathered.  I  always  loved 
everything  outdoors,  and  so  I  made  friends  and 
playmates  of  them.  When  I  learned  that  moths 
die  so  soon,  I  saved  them  especially,  because  there 
seemed  no  wickedness  in  it." 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  261 

"I  have  thought  the  same  thing/'  said  the  Bird 
Woman  encouragingly  and  asked  Elnora  if  she 
knew  what  she  had. 

"  Not  all  of  them.  There  are  some  books  I  studied 
and  I  tried  to  take  moths  right,  but  I  am  afraid 
they  are  not  what  you  want." 

"Are  they  the  big  ones  that  fly  mostly  June 
nights  ?"  asked  the  Bird  Woman. 

"Yes/'  said  Elnora,  "great  gray  ones  with  reddish 
markings,  pale  blue-green,  yellow  with  lavender, 
and  red  and  yellow." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  red  and  yellow?"  so 
quickly  that  the  girl  almost  jumped. 

"Not  exactly  red.  A  reddish,  yellowish  brown, 
with  canary-coloured  spots  and  gray  lines  on  their 
wings." 

"How  many  of  them?" 

"Well,  I  had  over  two  hundred  eggs,"  said  Elnora, 
"but  some  of  them  didn't  hatch,  and  some  of  the 
caterpillars  died,  but  there  must  be  at  least  a  hun- 
dred perfect  ones." 

"Perfect!     How  perfect?" 

"I  mean  whole  wings,  no  down  gone,  and  all  their 
legs  and  antennae,"  faltered  Elnora. 

"Young  woman,  that's  the  rarest  moth  in  Amer- 
ica," said  the  Bird  Woman  solemnly.  "If  you 
have  a  hundred  of  them,  they  are  worth  a  hun- 
dred dollars  according  to  my  list.     I  can  use   all 


262  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

that  are  whole.  You  come  here  at  four,  and  we 
will  drive  out  with  some  specimen  boxes  and  see 
what  you  have  to  sell.  Are  you  free  to  part  with 
them?" 

"They  are  mine/'  said  Elnora.  "No  one  but 
God  knows  that  I  have  them.  I  know  that  most  of 
them  are  all  right,  and  oh,  I  do  need  the  money!" 

"Yes/'  said  the  Bird  Woman,  "I  will  buy  them, 
also  the  big  moth  caterpillars  that  are  creeping 
everywhere  now,  and  the  cocoons  that  they  spin 
just  about  this  time.  I  will  pay  good  prices  for  all 
the  moths  you  can  find,  because  you  see  I  exchange 
them  with  foreign  collectors.  I  want  a  complete 
series  of  the  moths  of  America  to  trade  with  a 
German  scientist,  another  with  a  man  in  India, 
and  another  in  Brazil." 

After  school  closed  Elnora,  seated  by  the  Bird 
Woman,  drove  to  the  Limberlost.  One  at  a  time 
the  beautiful  big  moths  were  taken  from  the  interior 
of  the  old  black  box.  Not  a  fourth  of  them  could 
be  moved  that  night,  and  it  was  almost  dark  when 
the  last  box  was  closed,  the  list  figured,  and  into 
Elnora's  trembling  fingers  were  paid  fifty-nine 
dollars  and  sixteen  cents. 

"Oh  you  beautiful  stuff!"  she  cried.  "You  are 
going  to  buy  books,  pay  tuition,  and  take  me  to 
high  school." 

V  *r  n*  n^  *P  *&  ^^ 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  263 

She  studied  two  hours  and  was  several  lessons 
ahead  of  her  class.  There  was  no  use  to  go  further. 
She  would  take  a  walk  and  see  if  she  could  gather 
any  caterpillars  or  find  any  fresh  spun  cocoons. 
Almost  the  first  thorn  bush  she  examined  yielded 
a  Polyphemus  cocoon.  She  reached  the  swamp 
before  she  knew  it,  carrying  five  fine  cocoons  of 
different  species  as  her  reward,  and  she  came 
face  to  face  with  Pete  Corson. 

"What  luck!"  she  cried.  "I  promised  mother 
I  would  not  go  inside  the  swamp  alone,  and  will  you 
look  at  the  cocoons  I've  found?  There  are  more 
just  screaming  for  me  to  come  get  them,  because  the 
leaves  will  fall  with  the  first  frost,  and  then  the  jays 
and  crows  will  begin  to  tear  them  open.  You  will  go 
with  me,  Pete  !     Please  say  yes  !     Just  a  little  way  ! " 

"What  are  those  things?"  asked  the  man. 

"They  are  the  cases  these  big  caterpillars  spin 
for  winter,  and  in  the  spring  they  come  out  great 
night  moths,  and  I  can  sell  them.  Oh,  Pete,  I 
can  sell  them  for  enough  to  take  me  through  high 
school,  and  dress  me,  and  if  I  have  good  luck  I  can 
save  some  for  college.  Pete,  please  go  with  me? 
You  know  I  have  been  gathering  moths.  Lately 
I  found  I  could  sell  them.  If  I  can  make  a  com- 
plete collection,  I  can  get  three  hundred  dollars 
for  it." 

"Can  every  kind  be  found  here?" 


264  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

"No,  not  all  of  them,  but  when  I  get  more  than 
I  need  of  one  kind,  I  can  trade  them  with  collectors 
farther  north  and  west,  so  I  complete  sets.  It's 
the  only  way  I  see  to  earn  money.  Look  what  I 
have  already.  Big  gray  Cecropias  come  from  this 
kind ;  brown  Polyphemus  from  that,  and  green 
Lunas  from  these/ ' 

"Yes,  I'll  take  care  of  you,"  promised  Pete  Cor- 
son, rough  and  wild,  but  she  had  never  been  afraid 
of  him. 

She  plunged  fearlessly  through  bushes,  over 
underbrush,  and  across  dead  logs.  One  minute 
she  was  crying  wildly  that  here  was  a  big  one; 
the  next  she  was  reaching  for  a  limb  above  her  head, 
or  on  her  knees  overturning  dead  leaves  under  a 
hickory  or  oak  tree,  or  pushing  aside  black  muck 
with  her  bare  hands  as  she  searched  for  the  hidden 
pupae  cases.  For  the  first  hour  Pete  bent  back 
bushes  and  followed,  carrying  what  Elnora  dis- 
covered.    Then  he  found  one. 

"Is  this  the  kind  of  thing  you  are  looking  for?" 
he  asked,  bashfully,  as  he  presented  a  wild  cherry 
twig. 

"Oh,  Pete,  that's  a  Promethea !  I  didn't  even 
hope  to  find  one." 

"What's  the  bird  like?"  asked  Pete. 

"Almost  black  wings,  with  clay-colour  edges, 
and  the  most  wonderful  wine-coloured  flush  over 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  265 

the  under  side  if  it's  a  male,  and  stronger  wine 
above  and  below  if  it's  a  female.  Oh,  aren't 
I  happy!" 

Pete  examined  the  cocoons  Elnora  had  found. 
He  questioned  her  as  to  what  other  kinds  would 
be  like.  He  began  to  use  the  eyes  of  a  trained 
woodman  and  hunter  in  her  behalf.  He  saw  several 
so  easily,  and  moved  through  the  forest  so  softly, 
that  Elnora  forgot  the  moths  in  watching  him.  He 
was  making  trips  of  investigation  to  see  which  was 
a  cocoon  and  which  a  curled  leaf,  or  he  was  down 
on  his  knees  digging  around  the  stumps.  As  he 
worked  he  kept  asking  questions.  What  kind  of 
logs  were  best  to  look  beside,  what  trees  were  the 
pupae  cases  most  likely  to  be  under ;  on  what  bushes 
did  caterpillars  spin  most  frequently? 

"Now  go  cautiously!"  she  said.  "I  am  just 
sure  we  will  find  an  Imperialis  here.  It's  their 
very  kind  of  a  place.  There !  What  did  I  tell 
you !  Isn't  that  splendid  ?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  that 
you  came  with  me !  Come  on,  Pete,  it's  getting 
dark  now,  and  we  must  go." 


Early  June  was  rioting  in  fresh  grasses,  bright 
flowers,  bird  songs,  and  gay-winged  creatures  of  the 
air.  Down  the  footpath  went  Elnora  and  her 
mother  through  the    perfect  morning,  the  love    of 


266  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

God  and  all  nature  in  their  hearts.  At  last  they 
reached  the  creek !  Here  Mrs.  Comstock  found  a 
large  bed  of  tender  dandelions  and  stopped  to  fill 
her  pail.  Elnora  crossed  the  creek,  following  it  up 
to  a  bridge.  There  she  began  a  careful  examina- 
tion of  the  under  sides  of  the  sleepers  and  the  floor- 
ing for  cocoons. 

Around  the  bend  came  a  fisherman.  Elnora 
was  under  the  bridge,  one  knee  planted  in  the 
embankment  and  a  foot  braced  to  support  her, 
working  to  loosen  a  cocoon  she  had  found.  She 
looked  around  at  the  sound.  "  Possibly  I  could  get 
that  for  you/'  suggested  the  man. 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  you  can!"  answered  Elnora. 
"It's  quite  a  find!  It's  one  of  those  lovely  pale 
red  cocoons  described  in  the  books.  I  suspect  it 
comes  from  having  been  in  a  dark  place  and  screened 
from  the  weather." 

"Is  that  so?"  cried  the  man.  "Wait  a  minute. 
Fve  never  seen  one.  I  suppose  it's  a  Cecropia, 
from  the  location." 

"Of  course,"  said  Elnora.  "It's  so  cool  here 
the  moth  hasn't  emerged.  The  cocoon  is  a  big, 
baggy  one,  and  it  is  as  red  as  a  fox  tail." 

He  reeled  in  his  line,  laid  his  rod  across  a  bush 
and  climbed  the  embankment  to  Elnora's  side, 
produced  a  knife  and  began  the  work  of  whittling 
a  deep  groove  around  the  cocoon. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  267 

"What  luck!"  he  cried.  "Are  you  making  a 
collection?" 

"Yes.  I  paid  my  way  through  the  high  school 
with  them.  Now  I  am  starting  a  collection  which 
means  college." 

He  paused  to  rest,  for  the  bridge  flooring  was  hard 
lumber,  and  the  task  he  had  set  himself  not  easy. 

"IVe  been  having  typhoid  fever  something  fierce. 
In  the  hospital  six  weeks.  Didn't  gain  strength 
right,  so  Uncle  Doc  sent  for  me.  I  am  to  live  out- 
doors all  summer.  But  with  interesting  outdoor 
work  I'll  be  myself  in  a  week.  My  name  is  Philip 
Ammon." 

"Do  you  call  that  work?"  Elnora  indicated  the 
creek. 

"I  do  indeed!  Nearly  three  miles,  banks  too 
soft  to  brag  on,  and  never  a  strike.  Wouldn't 
you  call  that  hard  labor?" 

"Well,  if  you  only  want  exercise,  go  right  on  fishing. 
You  can  get  a  creel  full  of  invisible  results  every  night." 

"I  object,"  said  the  man  emphatically.  "When 
I  work  I  want  to  see  results."  He  digged  the 
groove  around  the  cocoon  with  skilled  hand.  "Now 
there  is  some  fun  in  this.  It's  going  to  be  a  fair 
job  to  cut  this  out,  but  when  it  comes,  it  is  not  only 
beautiful,  but  worth  a  price.  I  think  I'll  put  up 
that  rod  and  hunt  moths.     Don't  you  want  help?" 

"Have  you  ever  hunted  moths,  Mr.  Ammon?" 


268  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

"  Enough  to  know  the  ropes  in  taking  them;  and 
to  distinguish  the  commonest  ones.  I  know  enough 
to  help  you  all  right.  You  better  say  'yes/"  he 
persisted.  "It  would  be  a  real  kindness.  I  can 
'sugar/  manipulate  lights,  and  mirrors,  and  all  the 
expert  methods.  I'll  wager,  moths  are  thick  in  the 
old  swamp  over  there." 

The  cocoon  came  loose.  Presently  they  came 
down  the  creek,  the  man  carrying  the  cocoon  as  if 
it  were  a  jewel. 

"Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Philip  Ammon.  He  came 
fishing  down  the  creek  and  cut  this  cocoon  from 
under  the  bridge  for  me.  He  feels  that  it  would 
be  better  to  hunt  moths  than  fish,  until  he  gets  well. 
What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"You  may  take  hand-shaking  for  granted," 
replied  Mrs.  Comstock,  "dandelions  have  a  way 
of  making  the  fingers  sticky,  and  I  like  to  know  a 
man  before  I  take  his  hand,  anyway.  I  am  sorry 
to  hear  that  you  have  been  sick.  You  seem  a  little 
wobbly  on  your  legs.  Maybe  you  had  better  sit 
and  rest  while  I  finish  these  greens." 

"May  I  have  a  leaf?"  asked  Ammon  reaching 
for  one  as  he  sat  on  the  bank.  He  drew  a  deep 
breath.  "Glory,  but  this  is  good  after  almost  two 
months  inside  hospital  walls!" 

"Do  you  suppose  this  is  the  kind  of  grass  Nebu- 
chadnezzar  ate?"   Elnora   asked,   giving  the  leaf. 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  269 

"You  should  taste  dandelions  boiled  with  bacon 
and  accompanied  by  mother's  especial  brand  of 
corn-bread." 

"Don't!     My  appetite  is  twice  my  size  now." 

The  man  lay  in  perfect  content,  nibbling  leaves. 

"This  surely  is  a  treat/'  he  said.  "No  wonder 
you  find  good  hunting  here.  There  seems  to  be 
foliage  for  almost  every  kind  of  caterpillar.  What 
authorities  have  you?" 

Elnora  began  to  name  the  text-books  which 
started  the  discussion.  Mrs.  Comstock  listened. 
She  liked  the  things  he  said,  and  was  proud  that 
Elnora  had  a  ready  answer  which  always  seemed 
appropriate.     At  last  she  finished  the  greens. 

"You  are  three  miles  from  the  city.  I  suspect 
you  had  better  go  home  with  us  and  rest  until  the 
cool  of  the  day  before  you  start  back." 

The  girl  carried  the  cocoon  and  the  box  of  moths 
she  had  taken,  searching  every  step  for  more. 
They  talked  of  flowers,  moths,  dragon  flies,  Indian 
relics,  and  all  the  natural  wonders  the  swamp 
afforded,  straying  from  those  subjects  to  books  and 
school  work.  When  they  finally  cleared  the  sup- 
per table  Ammon  assisted,  carrying  several  tray 
loads  to  the  kitchen.  Then  he  and  Elnora 
mounted  specimens. 

"May  I  come  to-morrow  afternoon  and  chase 
moths   awhile?"   he  asked  Mrs.    Comstock   as  he 


270  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

arose.  "We  will  '  sugar'  a  tree  and  put  a  light  by 
it,  if  I  can  get  the  stuff  to  make  the  preparation. 
Possibly  we  can  take  some  that  way.  Please  say 
I  may  come." 

"I   have   no   objections,   if   Elnora   really  would 
like  help/'  said  Mrs.  Comstock. 


The  next  day  Ammon  came  whistling  down  the 
walk.  He  carried  several  packages.  He  began 
unwrapping  packages  and  explaining  to  Mrs.  Com- 
stock how  to  cook  the  compound  to  attract  the 
moths.  He  followed  her  into  the  kitchen,  kindled 
the  fire,  and  stirred  the  preparation  as  he  talked. 
Then  they  set  out,  Ammon  carrying  the  dope, 
Elnora  and  Mrs.  Comstock  following  with  cyanide 
boxes  and  lanterns. 

First  they  tried  for  butterflies  and  captured  sev- 
eral fine  ones.  They  also  called  swarms  of  ants, 
bees,  and  flies.  When  it  grew  dusk  they  lighted 
the  lanterns,  repainted  the  trees  and  followed  the 
home  trail. 


It  was  just  sunrise.  Mrs.  Comstock  and  Elnora 
were  finishing  breakfast  when  they  heard  a  cheery 
whistle  down  the  road. 

"I  hope  I  am  not  too  early,"  Philip  said.  "I 
am   consumed  with   anxiety  to   learn  if  we  have 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  271 

made  a  catch.  If  we  have,  we  should  beat  the  birds 
to  it.  Let's  hurry !  I  am  afraid  of  the  crows. 
There  might  be  a  rare  moth." 

The  sun  was  topping  the  Limberlost  when  they 
started.     As  they  neared  the  place  Ammon  stopped. 

"Now  we  must  use  great  caution.  The  lights 
and  the  odours  always  attract  numbers  that  don't 
settle  on  the  baited  trees.  Every  bush,  shrub,  and 
limb  may  hide  a  specimen  we  want." 

So  they  approached  with  much  care. 

"There  is  something,  anyway!"  cried  Ammon, 
who  was  leading  the  way. 

"There  are  moths!  I  can  see  them!"  exulted 
Elnora. 

"Those  you  see  are  fast  enough.  It's  the  ones 
for  which  you  must  search  that  will  get  away.  The 
grasses  are  dripping,  and  I  have  boots,  so  you  look 
along  the  path  while  I  take  the  outside,"  suggested 
Ammon. 

Back  in  the  deep  woods  a  hermit  thrush  was 
singing  his  chant  to  the  rising  sun.  Orioles  were 
sowing  the  pure,  sweet  air  with  notes  of  gold, 
poured  out  while  on  the  wing.  Scolding  red-wings 
tilted  on  the  bushes.  Elnora  uttered  the  first  cry, 
as  she  softly  lifted  branches  and  peered  among  the 
grasses. 

"My  find!"  she  called.  "Bring  the  box, 
mother!" 


272  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

Ammon  came  hurrying  also.  On  the  hand  she 
held  out  to  them  clung  a  pair  of  delicate  blue-green 
moths,  with  white  bodies,  and  touches  of  lavender 
and  straw  colour.  He  picked  the  box  from  Mrs. 
Comstock's  fingers,  and  slowly  advanced  with  it. 
Elnora  held  down  her  hand  and  transferred  the 
moths. 

Mrs.  Comstock  started  down  the  path  toward 
her  log  again,  and  as  she  reached  it  she  called 
sharply,  " Elnora,  come  here!  I  believe  I  have 
found  something  myself." 

The  " something"  was  a  Citheronia  Regalis  which 
had  just  emerged  from  its  case  on  the  soft  earth  by 
the  log.  It  climbed  up  the  wood,  its  stout  legs 
dragging  a  big  pursy  body,  while  it  wildly  flapped 
tiny  wings  the  size  of  a  man's  thumb-nail.  El- 
nora gave  one  look  and  a  cry,  which  brought  Ammon. 

" That's  the  rarest  moth  in  America!"  he  an- 
nounced. "Mrs.  Comstock,  you've  gone  up  head. 
You  can  put  that  in  a  box  screen  to-night,  and 
attract  a  half-dozen,  possibly." 

"Is  it  rare,  Elnora?"  inquired  Mrs.  Comstock, 
as  if  no  one  else  knew. 

"It  surely  is,"  answered  Elnora.  "If  we  can  find 
it  a  mate  to-night,  it  will  lay  from  two  hundred  and 
fifty  to  three  hundred  eggs  to-morrow.  With  any 
luck  at  all  I  can  raise  two  hundred  caterpillars  from 
them.     I  did  once.     And  they  are  worth  a  dollar 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  273 

apiece.  The  Bird  Woman  calls  this  the  King  of 
the  Poets." 

"Why  does  she?" 

"Because  it  is  named  for  Citheron  who  was  a 
poet,  and  regalis  refers  to  king.  You  watch  and 
don't  let  that  moth  out  of  sight,  or  anything  come 
near  it.  You  mustn't  touch  it  or  you  may  stunt 
wing  development.  When  the  wings  are  expanded 
and  hardened  we  will  put  it  in  a  box." 

"I  am  afraid  it  will  race  itself  to  death/'  objected 
Mrs.  Comstock. 

"That's  a  part  of  the  game,"  said  Ammon. 
"It  is  starting  circulation  now.  When  the  right 
moment  comes,  it  will  stop  and  develop  its 
wings.  If  you  watch  closely  you  can  see  them 
expand." 

Presently  the  moth  found  a  rough  projection  of 
bark  and  clung  with  its  feet,  back  down,  its  wings 
hanging.  The  body  was  an  unusual  orange  red, 
the  tiny  wmgs  were  gray,  striped  with  red  and 
splotched  here  and  there  with  markings  of  canary 
yellow.  Mrs.  Comstock  watched  breathlessly. 
Presently  she  slipped  off  the  log  and  knelt  to  get  a 
better  view. 

"Are  its  wings  growing?"  called  Elnora. 

"They  are  getting  larger  and  the  markings  coming 
stronger  every  minute." 

"Let's  watch,  too,"  said  Elnora. 


274  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

They  came  and  looked  over  Mrs.  Comstock's 
shoulder.  Lower  dropped  the  gay  wings,  wider 
they  spread,  brighter  grew  the  markings  as  if  laid 
off  in  geometrical  patterns.  They  could  hear  Mrs. 
Comstock's  tense  breath  and  see  her  absorbed 
expression. 

"Young  people,"  she  said  solemnly,  "if  your 
studying  science  and  the  elements  has  ever  led  you 
to  feel  that  things  just  happen,  kind  of  evolve 
by  chance,  as  it  were,  this  sight  will  be  good  for 
you.  Maybe  earth  and  air  accumulate,  but  it 
takes  the  wisdom  of  the  Almighty  God  to  devise 
the  wing  of  a  moth.  If  ever  there  was  a  miracle, 
this  whole  process  is  one.  Now,  as  I  understand 
it,  this  creature  is  going  to  keep  on  spreading  those 
wings,  until  they  grow  to  size  and  harden  to  strength 
sufficient  to  bear  its  body.  Then  it  flies  away, 
mates  with  its  kind,  lays  its  eggs  on  the  leaves  of  a 
certain  tree,  and  the  eggs  hatch  caterpillars  which 
eat  just  that  kind  of  leaves,  and  the  worms  grow 
and  grow,  and  take  on  different  forms  and  colours 
until  at  last  they  are  big  caterpillars  six  inches  long, 
with  large  horns.  Then  they  burrow  into  the 
earth,  build  a  house  around  themselves  from  the 
material  which  is  inside  them,  and  lie  through  rain 
and  freezing  cold  for  months.  A  year  from  egg  lay- 
ing they  come  out  like  this,  and  begin  the  process 
all   over   again.     They   don't   eat,   they   don't   see 


THE    KING    OF    THE    POETS  275 

distinctly,  they  live  but  a  few  days,  and  fly  only  at 
night ;  then  they  drop  off  easy,  but  the  process  goes 
on." 

A  shivering  movement  went  over  the  moth.  The 
wings  drooped  and  spread  wider.  It  climbed  to 
the  end  of  the  projection,  up  it  a  little  way,  then 
suddenly  reversed  its  wings,  turning  the  hidden 
sides  out  and  dropping  them  along  its  abdomen, 
like  a  great  fly.  The  outside  of  the  wings,  thus 
exposed,  was  far  richer  colour,  more  exquisite  tex- 
ture than  the  under,  and  they  slowly  lifted  and 
drooped  again.  The  moth  spread  its  wings,  shiv- 
ered them  tremulously,  opening  and  closing  them 
rapidly.  Ammon  handed  the  box  to  Elnora.  She 
shook  her  head. 

"I  can't  take  this  one,"  she  said.     "Let  her  go." 

"But,  Elnora,"  protested  Mrs.  Comstock,  "I 
don't  want  to  let  her  go.  She's  mine.  She's  the 
first  one  I  ever  found  this  way.  Can't  you  put  her 
in  a  big  box,  and  let  her  live  without  hurting  her? 
I  can't  bear  to  let  her  go.  I  want  to  learn  all  about 
her." 

"Then  watch  her  while  we  get  these  on  the  trees," 
said  Elnora.  "We  will  take  her  home.  She  won't 
fly  for  a  long  time  yet." 

Mrs.  Comstock  settled  on  the  ground,  an  elbow 
on  her  knee,  her  chin  in  her  palm,  gazing  at  the 
moth.     Elnora    and   Ammon   went   to    the    baited 


276 


THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 


trees,  placing  several  large  moths  and  a  number  of 
smaller  ones  in  the  cyanide  jar,  and  searching  the 
bushes  beyond  they  found  several  paired  specimens 
of  different  families.  When  they  returned  Elnora 
showed  her  mother  how  to  hold  her  hand  before  the 
moth  so  that  it  would  climb  upon  her  fingers. 
Then  they  started  home,  Mrs.  Comstock  stepping 
with  great  care  lest  she  stumble  and  jar  the  moth. 
Her  face  wore  a  look  of  comprehension,  in  her  eyes 
was  an  exalted  light. 

A  turtle  scrambled  from  a  log  and  splashed  into 
the  water,  while  a  red-wing  shouted,  "O-ka-lee!" 
to  her. 

Taken  from  A  Girl  of  the  Limberlost,  by  Gene  Stratton- 
Porter,  published  by  Doubleday, .  Page  &  Company. 


HEMP 

From  The  Reign  of  Law 

BY 

JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

We  have  taken  the  Preface  right  out  of  James 
Lane  Allen's  story,  The  Reign  of  Law,  by  his  consent. 
As  he  was  himself  a  farmer,  sowing  the  seed,  culti- 
vating the  soil,  and  harvesting  the  crops,  he  knows 
just  how  hemp  is  grown,  and  about  its  uses.  Better 
yet  he  knows  how  to  describe  it  beautifully.  He  was 
a  student,  and  became  a  professor  of  ancient  lan- 
guages. Now  he  is  a  man  of  letters,  who  delights 
particularly  to  write  about  the  people  and  beauties 
of  his  native  state,  Kentucky.  In  this  story  he 
tells  of  a  spiritual  rebirth  after  religious  doubts. 

For  adults. 


,feJ£~S 


s*^Si 


T 


HEMP 

Hemp  in  Kentucky  in  1782  —  early  landmark  in 
the  history  of  the  soil,  of  the  people.  Cultivated 
first  for  the  needs  of  the  cabin  and  clearing  solely ; 
for  twine  and  rope,  towel  and  table,  sheet  and  shirt. 
By  and  by  not  for  cabin  and  clearing  only ;  not  for 
tow-homespun,  fur-clad  Kentucky  alone.  To  the 
north  had  begun  the  building  of  ships,  American 
ships  for  American  commerce,  for  American  arms, 
for  a  nation  which  Nature  had  herself  created  and 
had  distinguished  as  a  sea-faring  race.  The  south 
had  begun  the  raising  of  cotton.  As  the  great  period 
of  shipbuilding  went  on  —  greatest  during  the 
twenty  years  or  more  ending  in  1860 ;  as  the  great 
period  of  cotton-raising  and  cotton-baling  went  on 
—  never  so  great  as  in  that  same  year  —  the  two 
parts  of  the  nation  looked  equally  to  the  one  border 
plateau  lying  between  them,  to  several  counties  of 
Kentucky,  for  most  of  the  nation's  hemp. 

The  record  stands  that  throughout  the  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  odd  years  elapsing  from  the  entrance 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  farmers  into  the  wilderness 
down  to  the  present  time,  a  few  counties  of  Kentucky 

279 


280  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

have  furnished  army  and  navy,  the  entire  country, 
with  all  but  a  small  part  of  the  native  hemp  con- 
sumed. 

Some  morning  when  the  roar  of  March  winds  is 
no  more  heard  in  the  tossing  woods,  but  along  still 
brown  boughs  a  faint,  veil-like  greenness  runs ;  when 
every  spring,  welling  out  of  the  soaked  earth,  trickles 
through  banks  of  sod  unbarred  by  ice;  before  a 
bee  is  abroad  under  the  calling  sky ;  before  the  red 
of  apple-buds  becomes  a  sign  in  the  low  orchards, 
or  the  high  song  of  the  thrush  is  pouring  forth  far 
away  at  wet  pale-green  sunsets,  the  sower,  the  ear- 
liest sower  of  the  hemp,  goes  forth  into  the  fields. 

Warm  they  must  be,  soft  and  warm,  those  fields, 
its  chosen  birthplace.  Upturned  by  the  plough, 
crossed  and  recrossed  by  the  harrow,  clodless, 
levelled,  deep,  fine,  fertile  — .  Back  and  forth  with 
measured  tread,  with  measured  distance,  broadcast 
the  sower  sows,  scattering  with  plenteous  hand 
those  small  oval-shaped  fruits,  gray-green,  black- 
striped,  heavily  packed  with  living  marrow. 

Lightly  covered  over  by  drag  or  harrow,  under  the 
rolled  earth  now  they  lie,  those  mighty,  those  inert 
seeds.  Down  into  the  darkness  about  them  the  sun 
rays  penetrate  day  by  day,  stroking  them  with  the 
brushes  of  light,  prodding  them  with  spears  of  flame. 
Drops  of  nightly  dews,  drops  from  the  coursing 
clouds,    trickle    down    to    them,    moistening    the 


HEMP  281 

dryness,  closing  up  the  little  hollows  of  the  ground, 
drawing  the  particles  of  maternal  earth  more  closely. 
Suddenly  —  as  an  insect  that  has  been  feigning 
death  cautiously  unrolls  itself  and  starts  into  action 
—  in  each  seed  the  great  miracle  of  life  begins. 
Each  awakens  as  from  a  sleep,  as  from  pretended 
death.  It  starts,  it  moves,  it  bursts  its  ashen 
woody  shell,  it  takes  two  opposite  courses,  the  white, 
fibril-tapered  root  hurrying  away  from  the  sun ; 
the  tiny  stem,  bearing  its  lance-like  leaves,  ascend- 
ing graceful,  brave  like  a  palm. 

Some  morning,  not  many  days  later,  the  farmer, 
walking  out  into  his  barn  lot  and  casting  a  look 
in  the  direction  of  his  field,  sees  —  or  does  he  not 
see  —  ?  the  surface  of  it  less  dark.  What  is  that 
uncertain  flush  low  on  the  ground,  that  irresistible 
rush  of  multitudinous  green?  A  fortnight,  and  the 
field  is  brown  no  longer.  Overflowing  it,  burying 
it  out  of  sight,  is  the  shallow  tidal  sea  of  the  hemp, 
ever  rippling.  As  the  eye  sweeps  the  whole  land- 
scape undulating  far  and  near,  from  the  hues  of 
tree,  pasture,  and  corn  of  every  kind,  it  turns  to  the 
color  of  the  hemp.  With  that  in  view,  all  other 
shades  count  for  nothing.  Far  reflected,  conspic- 
uous, brilliant,  strange ;  masses  of  living  emerald, 
saturated  with  blazing  sunlight. 

Darker,  always  darker  turns  the  hemp  as  it  rushes 
upward :    scarce  darker  as  to  the  stemless  stalks 


282  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

which  are  hidden  now ;  but  darker  in  the  tops. 
Yet  here  two  shades  of  greenness :  the  male  plants 
paler,  smaller,  maturing  earlier,  dying  first ;  the 
females  darker,  taller,  living  longer,  more  luxuriant 
of  foliage  and  flowering  heads. 

A  hundred  days  from  the  sowing,  and  those 
flowering  heads  have  come  forth  with  their  mass  of 
leaves  and  bloom  and  earliest  fruits,  elastic,  swaying 
six,  ten,  twelve  feet  from  the  ground  and  ripe  for 
cutting.  A  hundred  days  reckoning  from  the  last 
of  March  or  the  last  of  April,  so  that  it  is  July,  it 
is  August.  And  now,  borne  far  through  the  steam- 
ing air  floats  an  odor,  balsamic,  startling :  the  odor 
of  those  plumes  and  stalks  and  blossoms  from  which 
is  exuding  freely  the  narcotic  resin  of  the  great 
nettle. 

Who  apparently  could  number  the  acres  of  these 
in  the  days  by?  A  land  of  hemp,  ready  for  the 
cutting !  everywhere  the  impenetrable  thickets  of 
the  hemp. 

Impenetrable !  For  close  together  stand  the 
stalks,  making  common  cause  for  soil  and  light, 
each  but  one  of  many,  the  fibre  being  better  when 
so  grown  —  as  is  also  the  fibre  of  men.  Impene- 
trable and  therefore  weedless ;  for  no  plant  life 
can  flourish  there,  nor  animal  nor  bird.  Scarce  a 
beetle  runs  bewilderingly  through  those  forbidding 
colossal    solitudes,     The    field-sparrow    will    flutter 


HEMP  283 

away  from  the  pollen-receiving  top,  trying  to  be- 
guile you  from  its  nest  hidden  near  the  edge.  The 
crow  and  the  blackbird  will  seem  to  love  it,  having 
a  keen  eye  for  the  cutworm,  its  only  enemy.  The 
quail  does  love  it,  not  for  itself,  but  for  its  protec- 
tion, leading  her  brood  into  its  labyrinths  out  of 
the  dusty  road  when  danger  draws  near.  Best  of 
all  winged  creatures  it  is  loved  by  the  iris-eyed, 
burnish-breasted,  murmuring  doves,  already  be- 
ginning to  gather  in  the  deadened  tree-tops  with 
crops  eager  for  the  seed.  Best  of  all  wild  things 
whose  safety  lies  not  in  the  wing  but  in  the  foot, 
it  is  loved  by  the  hare  for  its  young,  for  refuge. 
Those  lithe,  velvety,  summer-thin  bodies !  Observe 
carefully  the  tops  of  the  still  hemp :  are  they 
shaken  ?  '  Among  the  bases  of  those  stalks  a  cot- 
ton-tail is  threading  its  way  inward  beyond  reach 
of  its  pursuer.  Are  they  shaken  violently,  parted 
clean  and  wide  to  right  and  left?  It  is  the 
path  of  the  dog  following  the  hot  scent  —  ever 
baffled. 

A  hundred  days  to  lift  out  of  those  tiny  seeds 
these  powerful  stalks,  hollow,  hairy,  covered  with 
their  rough  fibre,  —  that  strength  of  cables  when 
the  big  ships  are  tugged  at  by  the  fury  of  wind  and 
ocean.  And  now  some  morning  at  the  corner  of 
the  field  stand  the  black  men  with  hooks  and  whet- 
stones.    The  hook,  a  keen,  straight  blade,  bent  at 


284  THE   ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

right  angles  to  the  handle  two  feet  from  the  hand. 
Let  these  men  be  the  strongest ;  no  weakling  can 
handle  the  hemp  from  seed  to  seed  again.  The 
leader  strides  to  the  edge,  and  throwing  forward 
his  left  arm,  along  which  the  muscles  play,  he  grasps 
as  much  as  it  will  embrace,  bends  the  stalk  over, 
and  with  his  right  hand  draws  the  blade  through 
them  an  inch  or  more  from  the  ground.  When  he 
has  gathered  his  armful,  he  turns  and  flings  it 
down  behind  him,  so  that  it  lies  spread  out,  cover- 
ing when  fallen  the  same  space  it  filled  when  stand- 
ing. And  so  he  crosses  the  broad  acres,  and  so 
each  of  the  big  black  followers,  stepping  one  by  one 
to  a  place  behind  him,  until  the  long,  whitish  green 
swaths  of  the  prostrate  hemp  lie  shimmering  across 
the  fields.  Strongest  now  is  the  smell  of  it,  impreg- 
nating the  clothing  of  the  men,  spreading  far  through- 
out the  air. 

So  it  lies  a  week  or  more  drying,  dying,  till  the 
sap  is  out  of  the  stalks,  till  the  leaves  and  blossoms 
and  earliest  ripened  or  unripened  fruits  wither 
and  drop  off,  giving  back  to  the  soil  the  nourish- 
ment they  have  drawn  from  it ;  the  whole  top  being 
thus  otherwise  wasted  — ■  that  part  of  the  hemp 
which  every  year  the  dreamy  millions  of  the  Orient 
still  consume  in  quantities  beyond  human  compu- 
tation, and  for  the  love  of  which  the  very  history 
of  this  plant  is  lost  in  the  antiquity  of  India  and 


HEMP  285 

Persia,  its  home  —  land  of  narcotics  and  desires 
and  dreams. 

Then  the  rakers  with  enormous  wooden  rakes ; 
they  draw  the  stalks  into  bundles,  tying  each  with 
the  hemp  itself.  Following  the  binders,  move  the 
wagon-beds  or  slides,  gathering  the  bundles  and 
carrying  them  to  where,  huge,  flat  and  round,  the 
stacks  begin  to  rise.  At  last  these  are  well  built; 
the  gates  of  the  field  are  closed  or  the  bars  put  up ; 
wagons  and  laborers  are  gone;  the  brown  fields 
stand  deserted. 

One  day  something  is  gone  from  earth  and  sky : 
Autumn  has  come,  season  of  scales  and  balances, 
when  the  Earth,  brought  to  judgment  for  its  fruits, 
says,  "  I  have  done  what  I  could  —  now  let  me 
rest!" 

But  of  all  that  the  earth  has  yielded  with  or 
without  the  farmer's  help,  of  all  that  he  can  call  his 
own  within  the  limits  of  his  land,  nothing  pleases 
him  better  than  those  still,  brown  fields  where  the 
shapely  stacks  stand  amid  the  deadened  trees. 
Two  months  have  passed,  the  workmen  are  at  it 
again.  The  stacks  are  torn  down,  the  bundles 
scattered,  the  hemp  spread  out  as  once  before. 
There  to  lie  till  it  shall  be  dew-retted  or  rotted ; 
there  to  suffer  freeze  and  thaw,  chill  rains,  locking 
frosts  and  loosening  snows  —  until  the  gums  holding 
together   the   filaments    of   the   fibre   rot    out   and 


286  THE    ROMANCE   OF   LABOR 

dissolve,  until  the  bast  be  separated  from  the 
woody  portion  of  the  stalk,  and  the  stalk  itself  be 
decayed  and  easily  broken. 

Some  day  you  walk  across  the  spread  hemp, 
your  foot  goes  through  at  each  step,  you  stoop,  and 
taking  several  stalks,  snap  them  readily  in  your 
fingers.  The  ends  stick  clean  apart ;  and  lo ! 
hanging  between  them,  there  it  is  at  last  —  a  fes- 
toon of  wet,  coarse,  dark  gray  riband,  wealth  of 
the  hemp,  sail  of  the  wild  Scythian  centuries  be- 
fore Horace  ever  sang  of  him,  sail  of  the  Roman, 
dress  of  the  Saxon  and  Celt,  dress  of  the  Kentucky 
pioneer. 

The  rakers  reappear  at  intervals  of  dry  weather, 
and  draw  the  hemp  into  armfuls  and  set  it  up  in 
shocks  of  convenient  size,  wide  flared  at  the  bot- 
tom, well  pressed  in  and  bound  at  the  top,  so  that 
the  slanting  sides  may  catch  the  drying  sun  and  the 
sturdy  base  resist  the  strong  winds.  And  now  the 
fields  are  as  the  dark  brown  camps  of  armies  — 
each  shock  a  soldier's  tent.  Yet  not  dark  always ; 
at  times  snow-covered ;  and  then  the  white  tents 
gleam  for  miles  in  the  winter  sunshine  —  the  snow- 
white  tents  of  the  camping  hemp. 

Throughout  the  winter  and  on  into  the  early 
spring,  as  days  may  be  warm  or  the  hemp  dry,  the 
breaking  continues.  At  each  nightfull,  cleaned 
and  baled,  it  is  hauled  on  wagon-beds  or  slides  to 


HEMP  287 

the  barns  or  the  hemp-houses,  where  it  is  weighed 
for  the  work  and  wages  of  the  day. 

Last  of  all,  the  brakes  having  been  taken  from 
the  fields,  some  night  —  dear  sport  for  the  lads ! 
—  takes  place  the  burning  of  the  "hempherds," 
thus  returning  their  elements  to  the  soil.  To  kindle 
a  handful  of  tow  and  fling  it  as  a  firebrand  into 
one  of  those  masses  of  tinder ;  to  see  the  flames 
and  the  sparks  rush  like  swarms  of  red  bees  sky- 
ward through  the  smoke  into  the  awful  abysses  of 
the  night ;  to  run  from  gray  heap  to  gray  heap, 
igniting  the  long  line  of  signal  fires,  until  the  whole 
earth  seems  a  conflagration  and  the  heavens  are  as 
rosy  as  at  morn ;  to  look  far  away  and  descry  on  the 
horizon  an  array  of  answering  lights ;  not  in  one 
direction  only,  but  leagues  away,  to  see  the  fainter, 
ever  fainter  glow  of  burning  hempherds  —  this, 
too,  is  one  of  the  experiences,  one  of  the  memories. 

And  now  along  the  turnpikes  the  great  loaded 
creaking  wagons  pass  slowly  to  the  towns,  bearing 
the  hemp  to  the  factories,  thence  to  be  scattered 
over  land  and  sea.  Some  day,  when  the  winds  of 
March  are  dying  down,  the  sower  enters  the  field 
and  begins  where  he  began  twelve  months  before. 

A  round  year  of  the  earth's  changes  enters  into 
the  creation  of  the  hemp. 

Taken  ,from  The  Reign  of  Law,  by  James  Lane  Allen, 
published  by  The  Macmillan  Company, 


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(EC,  CIR.     APR  1  8 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  40m,  3/78  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


